Ororo and T'Challa in Raising Lilith
by NWHS
Summary: Sequel to Through the Looking Glass. Someone wants revenge against T'Challa and will use Ororo to get it.
1. Chapter 1: Depression

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Black Panther and Storm**

**Author: NWHS**

**Raising Lilith**

**Chapter 1: Depression**

She moved through the small home with the decrepit gait of a woman twice her age. Wind howled; the dusted-over windows with termite-infested frames and cracked glass, letting in the cool Niganda night air. Fall was upon her, another year slowly drawing to its miserable end.

The room loomed before her; the narrow hall with its dark, bleak walls rose up to swallow her whole. Or so it seemed. Ten more steps was all it would take. Thirty steps from the front door. Twenty steps from the kitchen. Fifteen steps from the living room. Ten steps from her bedroom. She'd counted. Yes, in the years of condemned unfathomable silence, she'd counted, for counting was stable, true, unchanging. Numbers didn't lie. It was all that remained. That and revenge.

Step ten. She'd made it but dared not enter. Entering was never the goal, the trek, the brutal heart-wrenching journey that culminated with the same unforgivable scene was the lighter fluid that kept her fire burning. Four walls—two blue, two pink. Two teddy bears—one blue, one pink. Two bassinettes—one blue, one pink, both empty. But not for long.

She turned away from the depressing sight, back straightening, resolve strengthening; the sweet melody of retribution calling to her like a Siren to Odysseus.

Her lithe form glided on winds of pain and anger. Ten steps to her bedroom and it would begin. Once inside, she gathered a weathered book from a tiny wooden desk that had long since lost its luster, beauty, and fourth peg leg. Shoved haphazardly against the peeling painted wall, the desk - a reminder of times past - was yet another cruel artifact of what used to be.

She sat crossed legged on the floor, the thread bare rug her only protection from the harsh, cool, timbers. Opening the book, she read the passage, this, the thousandth recitation, two more and it would be done. Tonight was the second of four full moons that would fall between the fall equinox and the winter solstice. It was the blue moon, the third in the series, which would bring her. And it would be the fourth and final full moon that would seal her revenge and restore her heart, her family.

Her wet, red-rimmed eyes ran over the well-worn pages, her mind having memorized the passages long ago. But still, she read with the enthusiasm of a child opening a much anticipated gift. Her words floated like a sea-tossed ship with no lighthouse to guide it away from the rocks promising death, doom.

"Queen of the demons is Lilith, long-haired and winged. She is supposed to have been the first wife of Adam. She had been one of the wives of Samuel, but of a wild, heroic and passionate nature she left her spouse and joined Adam. From their union issued the demons or Shedim, who rode about in the world as wicked spirits, persecute and plague men, and bring upon them illness, disease, and other sufferings.

Lilith, like Adam, had been created from the dust of the earth. But as soon as she had joined Adam they began to quarrel, each refusing to be subservient and submissive to the other. "I am your lord and master," spoke Adam, "and it is your duty to obey me." But Lilith replied: "We are both equal, for we are both issued from dust, and I will not be submissive to you." And thus they quarreled and none would give in. And when Lilith saw this she spoke the Ineffable Name of the Creator and soared up into the air. Thereupon Adam stood in prayer before the Creator and thus he spoke: " O Lord of the Universe, the woman Thou hast given me has fled from me."

And the Holy One, blessed be His name, sent at once three angels whose names were Senoi, Sansenoi, and Sammangelof, to fetch and bring Lilith back to Adam. He ordered them to tell her to return, and if she refused to obey then a hundred of her offspring would die daily. The three angels followed Lilith, and they found her in the midst of the sea, on the mighty waves.

They communicated to her the command of the Eternal, but she refused to return. And the angels spoke to this rebel, this she-demon: "We will drown thee in the sea." But she made answer: "Know ye not that I have been created for the purpose of weakening and punishing little children, infants and babes. I have power over them from the day they are born until they are eight days old if they are boys, and until the twentieth day if they are girls."

And when the three angels heard her speech they wished to drown her by force, but she begged them to let her live, and they gave in. She swore to them in the name of the living God that whenever she came and saw the names or images or faces of these three angels, Senoi, Sansenoi, and Sammangelof, upon an amulet or cameo in the room where there was an infant, she would not touch it. But because she did not return to Adam, every day a hundred of her own children or spirits and demons die."

Reverently, she closed the book, kissing the cover with dry, chapped lips.

"Your loyal servant calls you, Lilith. Adam lives again and he has grown fat with wealth, fat with arrogance, and fat with pride. He cares nothing for others . . . except one. The portal to this world awaits you. He can be yours. You can finally bring him low. I only want one wish in return, one that was ripped from us both."

The old radio crackled in the background, the reception barely audible. But the sorceress heard it, the solemn percussion like knives down her back, shards to her soul.

"In a month's time, the King and Queen of Wakanda will welcome their little prince and princess. Let us all rejoice and pray to Bast for a healthy delivery. The citizens of Wakanda are—''

The radio smashed to the ground, hitting the three-legged desk on its decent. The sorceress stood over the bits of metal and plastic, her eyes glowing a venomous black.

It was time to open that portal; time to make him pay.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. Chapter 2: Doubting the Future

**Chapter 2: Doubting the Future**

**Part 1**

"In the first of three seminal papers that were published in 1905, Einstein examined the phenomenon discovered by Max Planck, according to which electromagnetic energy seemed to be emitted from radiating objects in quantities that were ultimately discrete. The energy of these emitted quantities, the so-called light-quanta, was directly proportional to the frequency of the radiation. This circumstance was perplexing because classical electromagnetic theory, based on Maxwell's equations and the laws of thermodynamics, had assumed that electromagnetic energy consisted of waves propagating in a hypothetical, all-pervasive medium called the luminiferous ether, and that the waves could contain any amount of energy no matter how small. Einstein used Planck's quantum hypothesis to describe visible electromagnetic radiation, or light. According to Einstein's heuristic viewpoint, light could be imagined to consist of discrete bundles of radiation. Einstein used this interpretation to explain the photoelectric effect, by which certain metals emit electrons when illuminated by light with a given frequency. Einstein's theory, and his subsequent elaboration of it, formed the basis for much of quantum mechanics.

The second of Einstein's 1905 papers proposed what is today called the special theory of relativity. At the time, Einstein knew that —''

"Are you trying to bore them so that they'll never want to come out?" Ororo asked, looking down the line of her body and at her husband. Admittedly, it was a tad difficult to see him past her ever- increasing baby bulge. And the fact that T'Challa was laying on his stomach, facing her, head between her raised legs didn't help. In fact, Ororo was convinced that it was this very compromising position that fostered an even more compromising position that led to the current width of her once manageable form.

T'Challa raised himself further up onto his elbows, rubbed and kissed her belly, and then sat up. "I was just about to get to the good part, Ororo. Did you know that Einstein was not the first to propose all the elements that went into the special theory of relativity; his contribution lies in having unified important parts of classical mechanics and Maxwellian electrodynamics.?"

And so her husband went, glorying in his love of physics. She hated to interrupt when he got like this, so passionate and excited. So unlike how he'd been the last few years, running away from his home, his legacy, himself, his family.

"The third of Einstein's seminal papers of 1905 concerned statistical mechanics, a field of study that had been elaborated by, among others, Ludwig Boltzmann and Josiah Willard Gibbs. Unaware of Gibbs' contributions, Einstein extended Boltzmann's work and calculated the average trajectory of a microscopic particle buffeted by random collisions with molecules in a fluid or in a gas. Einstein observed that his calculations could account for brownian motion, the apparently erratic movement of pollen in fluids, which had been noted by the British botanist Robert Brown. Einstein's paper provided convincing evidence for the physical existence of atom-sized molecules, which had already received much theoretical discussion."

He was hitting his stride now, his focus and hands on her eight and a half month protrusion. The babies had been restless much of the night, that is, until their father started his nightly lecture. This month was physics, last had been molecular biology, and the month before that, ancient Wakandan history.

Ororo closed her eyes, and settled deeper into the plush gold and white bed linens and pillows. Her mind traveled, as it often did, to the not so distant past.

"_This is what you must do, my love. Please know I understand. I need you to follow the path that is right for you. Just as I need you to understand how much it hurts me to be apart."_

"_That you know me so well. That you can let me be on my own makes it harder to be without you. But I have made a commitment and I must be clear about the rules. No matter what happens. No matter what you see or hear, you must not enter Hell's Kitchen. I cannot test myself if I think there is any chance you will be there for me. If I fall, I cannot dare to hope that you will be there to catch me. Otherwise, I have risked nothing, gained nothing."_

_I understand, my love. You have my word. Though it breaks my heart, you are . . . for as long as you wish . . . truly alone."_

"Why the tears, beloved?"

Ororo opened her eyes and T'Challa was now beside her, his deep-set brown eyes full of a husband's concern. She hadn't heard him stop talking or even alter his position. In fact, she had no idea how long she'd drifted to a time her mind kept replaying, but her heart would rather forget. Or perhaps, it was the other way around.

His large, gentle hand wiped at the stray tears, then cupped her cheek. "Hormones?" His voice was so soft and tender, his worry over her health and pending birth painfully obvious. She hated to lie to him, but the truth would be so much worse.

She nodded.

He relaxed, then smiled. "Well, it won't be much longer. Just a few weeks more and then . . ." He laughed in annoying anticipation and confidence. "Then the fun part begins." He rubbed his hands together as if he was plotting a diabolical plan. "I can't wait. Twins!"

She couldn't help the roll of her eyes and the sigh that followed. How in the hell could he be so damn calm when she was frightened to death? What in the hell did either one of them know about being parents? And if one wasn't enough, they were getting two. Disgusted, Ororo sank further into the pillows and covered her face with swollen fingers.

Strong arms hoisted her to a sitting position. As large as she'd gotten over the course of her pregnancy, T'Challa was still so much bigger. He lifted her as if her added weight was of no significance, and cautiously deposited her onto his lap.

"Do you want to talk about what's been bothering you? And don't tell me nothing," he said when she started to protest.

He knew her so well, but she wasn't ready to talk about her fears. How could she tell him after agreeing to start a family - with only a month from her due date – that she questioned her ability to raise a child because she remembered so very little of her own mother? She once thought that teaching, doting on, and protecting mutant children and teens was good practice for motherhood. Now, she was almost certain it hadn't been.

But worse than her own self-doubts were uncertainties about her husband. On two occasions, maybe three, he'd abandoned her—physically and emotionally. Sure, he'd had his reasons, but the end result was the same. Under times of great stress and personal insecurity, T'Challa had turned inward and away from all those who loved him—including her.

She leaned her forehead against his thick, football player size neck, and inhaled his fresh, masculine scent. He smelled of clary sage, a sweet, nutty fragrant oil he used in his bath.

"I'd rather not talk about it until I work it through in my mind first."

"So, you're finally admitting that something has been on your mind."

She nodded, a truthful one this time.

"Why won't you share your burden with me? I thought we agreed not to shut each other out, to not—''

"I know what we promised," she snapped, lifting her head to glare at him, and then softening when he kissed her. His lips were moist and supple, kiss sublimely calculating. Goddess, she loved the way he kissed her and hated how weak she became under the delicious onslaught.

"That's not fair," she said, when she could think and breathe again.

"It wasn't meant to be." He kissed her again, playfully tugging her bottom lip into his mouth, her arms going up to wrap around his neck. "Tell me, honey. I want to help, be there for you."

His sincerity pulled at her heartstrings, almost made her tell him the truth. But she wouldn't do it, she refused to spoil his good mood. He'd worked so hard the last two years to make things up to her, to prove he was worthy of her trust and love.

She gave him what she hoped was a conciliatory smile. "It's nothing I can't handle. I'm just tired of being pregnant, tired of all the cravings, and not being able to see anything south of my belly."

T'Challa caressed one leg and then the other. "Everything is still here and in working order, I assure you. But that's not what's bothering you, Ororo." He shook his head, his smile fading, and the sparkle in his eyes dimming. "It's all right, beloved. I can't expect . . ." He kissed her forehead. "I'm trying to be the man you and my country deserve, the man I haven't been for far too long."

"That's not—''

"What you said," he finished. "I know, but it _is_ what you've been worrying about. You don't want to hurt my feelings; I understand. You've always been one of the most sensitive and kindest people I've ever known. And I haven't always appreciated or deserved your kindness or love."

He waved away the compulsory contradiction that was on the tip of her tongue, the one that would've been a lie and the truth. He did deserve her love and kindness, but no, he didn't always appreciate it or her.

"You being pregnant doesn't change the past. It only means you've forgiven me enough to risk having children with a man who has a track record of being selfish and prideful. It is the way of kings and Black Panthers, but it doesn't make for a particularly reliable and supportive husband."

"You've grown, T'Challa. We've grown together," she said, placing her hands on his sturdy shoulders. How could a man be so physically strong, but emotionally fragile? T'Challa, King of Wakanda, former protector of Hell's Kitchen, and her husband, was both.

Once, she'd seriously considered ending that last title—breaking that most precious bond of marriage, and in so doing, her own heart. But that was two years ago. Still . . . trust and a sense of security, were harder to build, to give, than forgiveness.

"But have I grown enough? I think that's what you've been questioning, whether your husband and father of your children has truly and finally gotten his act together."

Ororo couldn't lie or prevaricate, not when he was looking at her like that—vulnerable and defenseless. Her weak sigh was confirmation enough. She couldn't . . . wouldn't say the words. Her hands dropped to his chest, then her lap. Her eyes followed suit.

A minute later, he lifted her chin, a gently stubborn force that brought them face-to-face.

"I'll say it every day until you believe me. I will never leave you alone again, beloved. You won't have to raise our children by yourself because I will be right beside you, raising them with you. I know there's so much we didn't learn about our future selves when we went twenty years into the future. But we were still together. Now, I don't know what we had to go through to make it that far as a couple, but we did make it—had three children to show for our effort."

"Yes, but how do we know if that future will be our future? How do we know that our very presence there didn't change something critical?"

"We don't," he said, his smile returning. He grasped her hand, placed it on her belly, and his hand over top of her own. "The fact that our future selves had twins and you're now expecting twins gives me hope. Perhaps things are playing out the way they always have, the way they're supposed to."

He shrugged, sounding more like a mystic than a scientist.

"I have faith." He massaged her stomach, soothing whichever rascal was poking or kicking her. It worked, as it always did, T'Challa already establishing that he knew far more about parenting than she did. Of course, unlike her, he had his parents longer than she had hers, and when his father was assassinated, his stepmother raised him as her own, along with his sister, Shuri.

"Have faith in us, Ororo, in _me_," he pleaded. "I'll never let any harm come to you or the babies. You must believe in my love."

"I've never doubted your love, T'Challa." _Only your emotional fortitude_, she admitted to herself.

"You must be tired," he said, after she left out a series of yawns. "Too tired to be having such a serious conversation."

He fluffed the pillows and pulled down the bed linen. After making sure she was comfortable, he scooted in next to her, and covered them both. Taking his usual spot, T'Challa fitted himself against her back, one hand tucked under her pillow, the other splayed across her belly.

He once told her the most difficult part about their separation was re-learning how to sleep alone. What Ororo had never told him was that the same was true for her. Now, without fail, they claimed each other and their need for security, familiarity, through entwined legs and arms in peaceful slumber.

**Part 2**

"Wildcats shall meet with hyenas, goat-demons shall call to each other; there too Lilith shall repose, and find a place to rest."

She closed the ancient tome and smiled devilishly. The queen would give birth soon and she would be ready. Lilith would rise, no longer in repose. The strange, brooding reflection in Isaiah 34:14,on the tragedy of a woman left cursed and broken, but never completely forgotten was considered a myth to many. But not to her, not to one who understood the mystical arts, and the wickedness of God's curse and his allegiance with man over woman. Women weren't meant to be subservient to men, the idea of Eve coming from Adam's rib as a symbol of the submissive role of women, absurd and demeaning.

But she would show them. She would show them all, starting with King T'Challa.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	3. Chapter 3: The Portal

**Chapter 3: The Portal**

**Part 1**

The blue moon shone brightly overhead, its full perfection reflecting off the Niganda River. The night- in its absolute blackness – nicely absorbed and tossed back the melancholic spirit of the opening of the New Year.

Though it should have been anything but, the beginning of a new season of life normally bringing forth happiness and hope. And so it was for most Nigandans, but not for her, not since that terrible day four years ago and not since that even worse night a month later.

As she knelt on the rocky sand at the shore of the river, her dingy black cloak concealed her head and her intentions, and a small, distant smile creased her beautifully wretched face. The smile felt odd, the muscles used to create the gesture out of practice, having been exiled – for so long - but now set free.

She raised her light brown eyes to the rare blue moon and the wicked show of teeth broadened, slicing through the grim shadows like a bolt of lightning. Her hands gripped the muddy, wet sand, the water from the shore lapping against her knees, dousing her cloak in its cool moisture.

She'd waited for this night, prayed to whatever god that would listen to hear her righteous cries of vengeance. Bast had long since turned her back on the witch, too besotted by the descendants of Bashenga to protect those who honored her. To hell with the Panther God, she'd found her own way without her.

The blue moon seemed to sparkle even brighter for her, lifting her ragged spirit, purging her scorched soul with a light of optimism.

"Lilith . . . whose father art Anu . . . whose children are swept away in the wings of Death every night . . . Lilith . . . polluted art thou sayeth blasphemous lips that wouldst dare speak against thee . . .  
but they have not been enlightened with thine understandings . . . they cannot see the purity in such unclean things . . . and so thy teachings are denied them . . . Oh Lilith! I come to thee now . . . a babe in thy arms. I am open to thee, for thou hast shown thyself to me thusly . . . open unto me the doors within mineself, that shalt free this one, from those inhibitions that bind me . . . show me that which layeth within . . . undiscovered . . . free this one from the boundaries of mine own confinement . . . this I beg you Lilith!"

She closed her eyes, sank her hands deeper into the sand, the tide smashing against her prostrated form. Her head fell to her knees, her breathing labored, and she recited the prayer again. Again. Again. Again. The words flowed strong as did the belly of the river.

After the fifth recitation, she stood, drenched in the sopping heat of her work. Opening her eyes, the witch raised her outstretched hands.

"I open this watery portal for you, dear Lilith. I welcome you to the modern world of man, the world of Adam, the world of Wakanda. I open this watery portal for you, dear Lilith. I welcome you to the world of greed, of sin, of injustice. I open this watery portal for you, dear Lilith. I welcome you to sow your seed, fill your cup, take your revenge."

A gusher of water sprang forth from the depths of the Niganda River. A whirling tornado of red and gold liquid nectar glistened in the blackened night sky, reaching to the disapproving heavens.

"I open this portal to you, my savior," the witch said, dropping to her knees as the tornado of water drifted from the confines of the river to the dusty sandy shore where she knelt—trembling and pleased.

From the red and gold specks of spinning water, she could just discern a head, legs, and arms. Not yet fully formed but well on her way. The fourth and final full moon would seal the bargain and close the deal, and all their fates.

"I have plight my troth to you and you to me, dear Lilith. By coming through my portal, you have accepted my call, my plea. You know what I seek."

Almost imperceptibly, the vague head in the spiraling water nodded.

"Go forth and do my bidding. But understand, he is yours, but the babes are mine. Once I have the twins and see his broken heart, you may claim your Adam."

The red and gold specks exploded, water cascading down on her in a heavy shower of satisfied acceptance. And then Lilith was gone, a stream of water vapor slithering to the north, toward the Republic of Wakanda.

**Part 2**

T'Challa peered across the mahogany table and at his tribal council. After the treasonous actions of his last council, aligning themselves with the Destauri, T'Challa, Shuri, and Ororo handpicked each man and woman sitting before him. They'd fought against the Destauri minions, calling for life imprisonment for some, death for others. Still, he didn't entirely trust any of them. He'd learned how blind trust in one's countrymen could lead to betrayal and pain.

Yet, they'd accepted all of his weaknesses, his long absence, and his eventual return to the throne. Such loyalty had to count for something. And so it did.

"Ovocka, tell me of the new security measures."

The thin framed woman nodded, her mostly silver hair tied back into a long, elegant braid. She had been Ororo's personal selection, the woman's integrity and intelligence appealing to his wife. And the fact that she was a member of the Gorilla Cult, who despised all outsiders, was a great honor to her tribe and an outstanding political move on Ororo's part.

"As you know, with the loss of the vibranium, our military have had to make extreme alterations to their weapons cache. Research and design have developed alternatives to the more traditional weapons used by western nations, but progress is slow."

"It's also very expensive, Your Highness," Zina, at thirty-one, the youngest member of his council, added. She was another Ororo appointee. She was even-tempered, sensible, articulate, and frugal. All of which made for an exceptional financial advisor, especially in these lean times.

"The Americans and western Europeans charge outrageous tariffs on goods— both imports and exports. Their companies think we are so desperate that we'll pay any price to sell and buy from them."

"They would be wrong," T'Challa said.

"Of course, they're wrong, which is why the Queen has been working so hard to build allegiances with other African nations," Zina said, her cunning gray eyes twinkling. "They have natural resources we do not, but we have many skills they lack, such as mining, farming—''

"Not to mention medicine and technology," Ovocka added. "It makes for an interesting interchange."

"But many in the region still don't trust us. They think we're only reaching out to them now because we had to basically blow ourselves up to prevent total destruction at the hands of Doom's mechanical devices." Bumani shook his head, the aging warrior having seen too much, but willing to stand by an untried Black Panther when T'Challa was but a boy trying to be a man.

And when the man needed to grow up some more, Bumani was there then too, helping to rebuild what T'Challa and Shuri destroyed. He was T'Challa's first council pick, a throwback to T'Chaka's time, but a man staunchly entrenched in the present, mind always on the future.

"And they would be right," T'Challa said, "in part at least. They can most definitely trust us, but we haven't exactly made for friendly neighbors over the years. We've given aid, even military assistance when asked, but nothing more. Most assuredly, not an olive branch of friendship or political and economic allies, but we aim to change all of that. The queen has already made substantial inroads with Kenya, South Africa, and Egypt. The others will come around—eventually."

All those at the table nodded, having been forced to accept that Wakanda could no longer survive or thrive as an isolationist country. Cruel circumstances brought them to their knees, but faith, honor, and resilience propelled them to their feet.

"Even with a few setbacks," Ovocka said, taking a long sip of herbal tea, "the military is coming along nicely. They continue to secure our borders, using the new surveillance protocols you created, Your Highness. In addition, the new Department of Internal Affairs is now fully functioning."

"Good, Ovocka, you're doing a fine job. Be sure to send Shuri the first round of reports from DIA. She'll want them right away."

T'Challa glanced at the clock on the wall opposite him. It was almost noon. There were two more reports left, but they could wait. He had a more pressing matter to attend to and he didn't want to be late.

"Let's adjourn," he suggested. "We'll reconvene at three o'clock."

It took no more than five minutes for his council to clear the room, leaving T'Challa to himself. He pushed from the table and stood, the midday rays beaming in from the east. It was a bright winter day, matching T'Challa's good mood.

Just as he was about to make his way out the door, the video phone beeped. T'Challa walked back to where he had been sitting, hit two buttons on his chair, and a screen rose from the desk. It shown black, gray, and then a familiar face greeted him.

"Sorry to interrupt, T'Challa, but Zawari needs to speak with you."

T'Challa looked at the clock again and then frowned. "Shuri, it's 12:10; I have an important appointment I must keep at 12:30."

"I understand, big brother, but Zawari had a vision last night and he must speak with you."

T'Challa sighed, taking in his sister's stoic expression. She was a pretty, young woman of twenty-three. Before becoming Black Panther and Princess Regent, she used to smile all the time. But the weight of leadership had taken some of the laughter from her, as it had done him when he was her age. Yet, things were different now, for them both.

"Shuri, is this an issue for the King of Wakanda or its Black Panther?"

She smiled in understanding. After serving in the dual roles for almost two years, Shuri came to three realizations. One, ruling a kingdom took patience, discipline, and diplomacy. Two, being Black Panther took patience, discipline, and diplomacy. Three, she couldn't do both equally well.

And one night, two and a half years ago, she'd come to Hell's Kitchen in search of him.

"I'll take Zawari's statement and then I'll decide." She started to sign-off and then said, "How's Ororo and the twins?"

"Well, if you let me go, I can find out for myself."

"Doctor's appointment?

"Yes, and I don't want to be late. We'll see you at dinner."

With that, T'Challa quickly ended the connection. Twelve fifteen, he had fifteen minutes to get to the palace's medical wing. He ran from the council chamber, ignoring the odd looks he garnered from those he whizzed past. He knew he looked strange—a robed king running through the palace with a huge grin on his face. T'Challa didn't care; he'd promised her. And he'd be damned if he started screwing up now after he'd worked so hard to get her back.

**Part 3**

"Everything looks fine," Dr. Somide said, her cold hands coming to rest on Ororo's bare stomach.

"Are you sure? She gets cold then hot. She doesn't sleep through the night. It seems like every five minutes she has to use the bathroom. And if she isn't eating then she's crying or cranky or—''

"If I'm cranky," Ororo said, interrupting her husband, "it's because I'm carrying two of your children at one time. How would you like to carry all of this weight around on swollen ankles?"

"I . . . I . . . just meant—''

"And you eat just as much as I do. Sympathy eating my a —'' She abruptly stopped herself, swallowing that last word, but they all knew what she'd been about to say.

Her husband laughed.

"Yeah, Dr. Somide, my wife's not cranky in the least. And she's right, it's all my fault. Those damn precise swimmers of mine. And they have a nerve to be overachievers, causing that little egg of hers to split in two."

He laughed again and so did Dr. Somide, who at least had the good grace to look away.

"I'm going to leave so you can get dressed, Ororo," the doctor said. "Continue to take your vitamins, drink plenty of fluid, and try to stay off your feet."

"If you would allow me to fly, I could stay off my feet all day."

"I still don't advise you using your mutant abilities. We don't know what impact that may have on the babies."

"Dr. Somide," Ororo sighed, tired of having the same pointless conversation. The woman was beyond competent, but she didn't know the first thing about mutants. Why she thought the very same person who could use winds to lift planes and cars - weighing thousands of pounds - couldn't manipulate those same winds to carry her pregnant form was beyond her.

T'Challa gave her a 'don't bother,' look and she gave the ignorant but well-meaning woman a polite smile. "Thank you. I'm sure I can manage for three more weeks. Unless they want to give me an early Mother's Day gift and come a little early."

Placated, Dr. Somide smiled at them both. She really was a wonderful doctor and Ororo knew she would safely deliver the twins when the time came. But really, Wakandan health practitioners needed to learn more about mutant physiology, but she'd be damned if she allowed them to use herself or the babies as guinea pigs.

"I'll see you next Monday." Ororo nodded and the doctor left.

"You were about to bite that woman's head off." He stood and helped her to a sitting position, her gray and black maternity blouse falling to her stomach.

"I haven't flown or used any of my powers since I entered the third trimester."

T'Challa's eyes squinted at her. "Dr. Somide recommended you stop during the _second_ trimester. It's important that you take care of yourself, and part of that is following all of the doctor's orders."

"She doesn't know what in the hell she's talking about. Mutants have been having babies since the beginning of time. Do you think all those women stopped using their powers?"

"That's a very clever way of saying you deliberately ignored doctor's orders because they didn't suit you."

"No, that's my clever way of saying that you need better trained physicians."

He gave her another disapproving squint of the eyes before bending to retrieve her slip-on shoes. He slid them into place, adjusted the waistband of her pants, and pulled her shirt snuggly over her belly.

"I can see why your parents only had one child. If your mother was anything like you are now, I'm sure your father—''

She punched him in the right arm, and then the left for good measure.

"Ow."

"You should know better than to make fun of a defenseless, pregnant woman."

"The pain in my arms would like to argue against the defenseless portion of your claim."

Ororo gave him a smirk, pleased he could find humor in her mood swings. T'Challa was definitely handling the pregnancy a lot better than she was. And each day he repeated his pledge to always be there for her and their children. And each day, like today, he managed to show her, through his actions, the truth behind the words.

She was very much aware that T'Challa had his weekly council meeting this morning. Those meetings tended to run until two or three, well after her doctor's appointment. He was king again now, and she didn't expect him to alter his schedule just to sit with her during a routine exam. Yet, he'd arrived a minute after she'd entered the exam room. He was proving to be most reliable.

T'Challa moved between her legs and wrapped his arms around her. He was so handsome, his strong jaw, broad nose, and enticing eyes, prompting her to place a kiss on his cleanly shaved cheek.

He smiled. "What was that for?"

She shrugged. "Can't a wife kiss her husband without having an ulterior motive?"

He smiled again, but wickedly. "Of course, I was just wondering why a chaste kiss from such a passionate woman."

"Well, I think it was our mutual passion that led to . . ." She nodded to her stomach.

"Ah, but now that you're pregnant, we can—''

Ororo used T'Challa's shoulders to push off the exam table.

"Remember doctor's orders, King T'Challa. No flying, no mutant powers, no sex."

He glared at her and she felt her good mood returning, another mood swing.

"I don't recall her saying anything about no sex, Ororo."

"Well, she did, about two months ago."

"Two months? When?"

"When I started having cramps and was spotting. She was very adamant about it too."

"Why is it that I don't remember any of this?" he asked, clearly doubting her.

"You were worried, busy calling in every specialist you knew. You even called Hank; I bet he remembers you disturbing him in the middle of the night."

"Okay, I remember that part. But no sex? We've definitely had sex since then, Ororo, and you know it."

"I do and we have." She made her way to the door, her husband swiftly following, unwilling to let the conversation or her go.

"Why are you bringing it up now?" He lowered his penetrating gaze, expecting the worse.

"Well, since you want me to adhere to Dr. Somide's orders, such as flying and the like, I should probably follow _all_ of them. And that includes refraining from sexual intercourse."

That very strong jaw she so adored started to twitch and his sexy nose flared, causing her to bite back a satisfied grin.

T'Challa stepped forward, her back going against the door, his unsmiling face zeroing in on hers.

"It hasn't caused you one moment of discomfort. In fact, you enjoy it as much as I do." He gave her that sexy gravely bedroom voice. The one that always made her want to . . .

"Neither has flying and I enjoy that as well."

She thought she heard a growl before he said, "Flying for sex?"

"Or flying during sex."

"Don't push your luck, Ororo."

She wouldn't; she'd be damned if she gave up both for the next three weeks. Hell, even longer, taking into consideration the six-week recuperative period normally prescribed after a delivery.

Ororo reached out her hand to seal the deal with a shake. Her husband, however, had a different idea. T'Challa claimed her mouth, his lips slamming into her with fiery intent, his right hand moving to cup her ass.

"I don't have to be back to the council chamber until three," his husky voice came, lips gliding from her mouth to her neck. "It's almost one-thirty now. That's more than enough time for what I have in mind."

The hand that had been deliciously massaging her bottom crept under her shirt, finding her engorged breast.

"Once I'm done with you, you'll be too exhausted to go flying today."

Ororo gulped, knowing exactly what her husband could do to her. Well, there was always tomorrow. Flying could wait.

She grabbed his hand. "Let's go."

They nearly ran into Shuri and Zawari, the witch doctor, when they opened the door.

"We need to talk, T'Challa," Shuri said, her Black Panther habit on sans the mask.

So she would have time to go flying today, after all. Shuri would never interrupt such a personal time between them if it wasn't important. Ororo understood. She squeezed her husband's hand, letting him know she was fine, and that he could catch up with her later.

"I have a few phone calls I need to make. I'll see the three of you later," Ororo said, and turned to leave.

She heard Zawari say her name then a wave of nausea washed over her. She felt like she was drowning, her lungs filling with an improbable gush of water. Ororo coughed, liquid spewed from her mouth, and then her legs gave way. Strong arms held her, caught her from plunging into the watery depths consuming her.

"T'Challa," she gurgled. Then all went black.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. Chapter 4: Cursed

**Chapter 4: Cursed**

**Part 1**

"_You need to return home."_

"_Hell's Kitchen needs me, Shuri. I can't just leave the people with no protector."_

"_Wakanda needs you. Your family needs you. That should be enough for you."_

"_The people of Wakanda have a Black Panther. That should be enough for them."_

"_Well, it isn't and you damn well know it. I've tried . . . I'm trying, and it still isn't enough. I'm not enough, T'Challa, and you need to come home. Together we can rebuild our homeland, reclaim our place in the international community, and make proper amends to our loyal citizens."_

"_Wakanda doesn't need or want a washed-up king and Black Panther."_

"_Is the same true for Ororo?"_

"_She understands why I'm here, Shuri. My wife supports me—what is that look for?"_

"_I can't believe you have the audacity to still call her that."_

"_You don't know—''_

"_What kind of husband have you been this last year? I don't care how you try to rationalize it, big brother, you abandoned your homeland, your responsibility, and your wife."_

"_That's not-''_

"_Fair? It's the truth. For Bast's sake, how much longer do you think Ororo will sit around waiting for you to get your shit together before she decides to make the separation permanent?"_

"_She understands."_

"_No wife is that damn understanding, not even Ororo."_

"_You don't know what you're talking about. I won't lose her."_

"_Yeah, right. How do you know you haven't already?"_

**Part 2**

"Dr. Somide is finished with the exam."

T'Challa felt cool yet soft hands on his cheek. He blinked, forcing the unbidden memories away. He didn't need to replay those, not again, not now. He looked up to see his mother's concerned brown eyes peering down at him, the green of her silk dress reminding T'Challa of an exquisitely cut emerald.

She stroked his cheek the way she'd done so many times when he was a naïve, innocent boy. But he was no longer naïve, innocent, or a boy. Yet her loving touch had the same calming affect now as it had then. But she could no longer kiss his pain away or vanquish the ghosts from under his bed. No, he had to do that himself.

"Dr. Somide says we can see Ororo soon."

"Is she awake?" he asked standing, dusting off the clinging remnants of his daymare.

"We don't know," Shuri answered.

T'Challa turned to his right, his sister moving from a window where she'd been standing, looking out, her face registering disinterest at the winter scenery. They'd been sitting, standing, and pacing for the better part of an hour after Ororo collapsed. The three of them and Zawari huddled worriedly, if not impatiently, in Dr. Somide's office awaiting the news.

T'Challa recalled the water flowing from his wife's nose, mouth, ears, even eyes. She could barely breathe, trying to speak but causing more of the liquid to flow. Then she simply passed out, her body frighteningly limp in his arms.

"The nurse only said that the doctor is finishing up and we can go to her room in," Shuri looked at the marble Panther God shaped clock located on a file cabinet, "about seven more minutes." Did you not here Mother speaking with the nurse?"

He hadn't heard, his mind too busy conjuring up bad memories and old mistakes. The sad truth was that the alternative would've been far worse. Sitting and doing nothing wasn't exactly a skill he'd ever attempted to master. Hell he hadn't even had the presence of mind to ask Zawari about the business with the portal. That could wait. Ororo couldn't.

T'Challa made his way out of Dr. Somide's office, down a brightly lit corridor, and to a large recovery room at the end of the hallway. As silent as they were, he knew the others were behind him, the pulsing of their hearts increasing the closer they got to Ororo's hospital room. They were just as concerned about her and the twins as he was.

_Now that you've returned home, son, what are you going to do to make our family complete? If you recall, you gave me a daughter-in-law and I want her safely home where she belongs._

_Safe_. T'Challa promised to keep her safe, to be there always for her.

Slowly, the door creaked open, T'Challa's gentle nudge and cautious legs following. In spite of the two ceiling to floor windows and the mid-day sun, the room was dimly lit, someone—probably a nurse—having partially drawn the heavy blue and gold draperies. But T'Challa noticed little of the room or the bodies passing him as they entered. No, the unconscious form of his pregnant wife in the bed held his eyes firmly.

"How is she?" T'Challa asked, speaking to the doctor while moving toward his wife. He studied her, listening to the beating of her heart, the slight whistle as she breathed, and the grim line of her mouth. She didn't appear to be unconscious but rather in a distasteful dream.

Dr. Somide turned to T'Challa, worried face but professional tone answered him. "I can't find any medical reason for her current state of unconsciousness. Her heart rate is strong and preliminary CAT scans are normal. As you all can see, she's breathing on her own. She's hooked to this one machine so I can monitor her and the babies heart rates. This," she said, pointing to the intravenous needle in Ororo's arm, "is for saline. It's only a precaution if she doesn't wake up soon."

"She was spitting up water, doc," Shuri said from the foot of the bed, "I don't think dehydration is something we have to worry about. Besides, she's a weather controlling mutant. Ororo would have to be damn near sitting on the sun to experience dehydration."

T'Challa gave his sister a squelching glare. She shrugged but shut up.

"You can never be too careful," Dr. Somide said, her tone appropriately respectful, eyes mildly annoyed. "I know I've never treated a mutant before but I assure you—''

"It's fine, Zinda, ignore my daughter," Ramonda soothed, placing a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "You've done a wonderful job caring for Ororo and the twins these past few months. But I fear what has happened to Ororo is beyond even your well of knowledge."

They all turned their gazes to the witch doctor who'd been huddled near the door, quiet but perceptive.

"Tell us what you know, Zawari," T'Challa said. "What is this I hear about a portal?"

The wiry man pushed himself from the wall, his untamed whiskers, disheveled clothes, and tribal facial markings making him look out-of-place in the elegance of the palace. But T'Challa trusted the man with his life. In fact, he'd assisted Ororo in saving his very soul when he'd been mortally wounded by Dr. Doom in a sneak attack. His plane crashed, killing all aboard except him. He tittered on the edge of life and death, his soul in limbo, awaiting its ultimate fate. Zawari's magic had sent his wife's soul into limbo to find and free his. She was willing to risk everything for him, for Wakanda, prepared to trade his soul for that of her own.

And when he returned from that place of lost souls, his body was broken, if not his pride. And it was Zawari who helped him yet again, opening up the mystical world to him, strengthening his body, turning him into a weapon that could defeat Doom.

"May I?" Zawari asked, gesturing to Ororo. "May I come closer, touch the Queen? I need to touch her to be sure."

T'Challa nodded and they all made way for the thin man. To T'Challa's surprise, Zawari laid his hands on Ororo's belly instead of her hand or forehead as he'd expected. Within seconds of touching her, he jerked his hands away, looking at them as if he'd been burned.

"It's as I thought."

"What is it? What's wrong?" T'Challa asked, glancing from the witchdoctor and back to his wife. "What in the hell happened when you touched her?"

"Magic," he said, taking three steps back from the bed. "Deadly, dark magic, my king. I felt it last night. It screamed to me from my dreams. And I feel it now. It's in her." He pointed at Ororo and slowly, all eyes returned to the unconscious woman.

"Dark magic is in Ororo?" Shuri asked.

"No, dark magic, born of a curse, is what opened a portal last night. Whatever came through it is what's in the queen."

"Are you saying someone cursed my wife?" T'Challa knew the question came out as a low growl but he didn't care.

"No, I'm saying someone cursed you."

Those same eyes that bore into Ororo were now boring into him.

"How can you be sure of this?" Ramonda asked. "Nothing has attacked T'Challa. He's perfectly fine."

"He's not fine and something has attacked him," Zawari said with grim certainty.

"He means by attacking Ororo, someone has attacked me," T'Challa clarified, the bile in this throat rising with his anger. He'd promised to protect her and their children.

"This doesn't make any sense," Dr. Somide said, swiftly moving to her patient. She placed a hand on Ororo's belly. "See. I've touched her a dozen times since I was informed of her collapse. So have nurses. None of us have been shocked or hurt or had the reaction of this person here." She pointed to Zawari, a disbelieving frown on her face.

"That's because," Zawari said, ignoring the doctor's disdain for his craft, your mind is closed to such things, your soul is one-dimensional, unable to pick up on such mystical disturbances in the air or within your patient. As far as the king, I see spotty black marks circling his natural aura, especially near his heart. When I look at the queen, the same marks appear, but near her abdomen only."

"And that means what, Zawari?" Ramonda asked.

"It means I'm cursed and someone is using Ororo and the twins to hurt me." T'Challa answered instead.

"The same way the Shadow King once used you to hurt Ororo," Shuri added thoughtfully.

"Yes, but unlike me, I don't think Ororo is possessed"

"She isn't. I said something is _in_ her. If it was a simple possession, her aura would look differently." Zawari moved closer, but made no effort to touch her. "Her aura would be in flux, almost like two souls fighting for dominance. I see no such discordance. The entity is just there."

"For what purpose, if not to possess her?" T'Challa asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it's waiting for something to happen," Zawari answered.

"Like what?" Shuri appeared confused but not as confused as Dr. Somide, who'd apparently decided to withdraw from the conversation entirely, all her concentration on Ororo's vitals. She really was a committed, competent physician, T'Challa thought. But Ororo was right, she knew nothing of mutants and even less about magic. She would be of little help.

"I wish I knew, your highness, but that answer rests with the spellcaster not with me."

Shuri huffed her impatience, T'Challa felt like doing the same. But he needed more answers from the witchdoctor, not a husband's fear, a husband's doubts.

"Do you know where we can find the spellcaster, Zawari?" he asked. "Did you see anything in your dream that we could use to find her or him?"

Out of the corner of his eye, T'Challa saw his mother walk around the doctor to stand next to Ororo. In spite of her silence, he knew she was listening to every word that transpired. But she trusted her children to solve any problem, he knew this as well. T'Challa wasn't sure if he deserved such unrelenting trust, but he had it nonetheless.

Zawari closed his dark brown eyes before answering. Several minutes later he opened them, the brown gone, replaced by coal black. The dreary color seeming to leak from his eyes, and then he spoke, the voice heavy and deathly gripping—not his own.

"Sandy shores not found in Wakanda. Winds of water push and pull mimicking the waxing and waning of the moon. From there it came, from there it was summoned, and to there it must return. Go to that beach."

"What beach, Zawari?" T'Challa asked, his patience quivering around the seams. He forced himself not to look at his wife, too afraid of what he'd see, afraid of what he knew he would do to the person who'd done that to her, to his unborn children.

The blackened, dripping eyes, peered unseeing out of the partially shaded windows. One thin arm and an equally thin finger rose. Arm and finger extended he said, "The Niganda Beach opened its watery arms and sent her here. There you will find the portal; there you will find the one who cursed your family."

Arm dropped to his side and his eyes returned to their normal color. The vague expression on his face cleared, his peculiar intelligent gaze forming, catching the eyes of those peering at him.

"Niganda Beach?" he questioned.

"Yes, King T'Challa," Zawari said, rubbing his suddenly exhausted looking eyes, the magic he'd extended with his vision clearly having taken its toll. "The energy from the portal is large enough for me to sense, but I can tell you nothing of the one who summoned whatever it is that came through and is now in Ororo."

The mere mentioning of her name drew an involuntary glance her way, T'Challa unable keep from turning. She was still unconscious, beautifully laying there, white hair flowing over her chest, hand protectively resting on her baby bulge.

"How can the portal be closed?" Shuri asked of Zawari.

"By vanquishing whatever it is that came through, or" he came to stand next to T'Challa, his eyes coming to rest on Ororo, "you convince the witch to undo her spell, or—''

"The witch dies," Shuri finished.

Zawari nodded.

"But we don't know who or where the witch is," Ramonda said. "And I doubt a person who would dare curse the King of Wakanda would recant her spell."

T'Challa had come to the same conclusion.

"Is there a way to get that thing out of her?" he asked, his hand coming to rest on Ororo's cheek. It was warm with an undertone of dampness.

"I could perform an exorcism."

"A what?" Dr. Somide grinded out. "I'll be damned if I allow you to lay one wicked finger on my patient. You and your devil eyes stay away from her." Her face was stern, voice even more so and T'Challa couldn't help the slight smile that creased his face. Ororo had chosen well, the doctor who knew only tangible science willingly putting herself between her patient and a powerful witchdoctor. The woman was crazy—blessedly so.

Ramonda reached for the doctor again, attempting to soothe the woman who was ready to go into battle for the welfare of her patients.

"I'll ignore the insult," Zawari said to the doctor. "If the queen wasn't pregnant or so advanced in her pregnancy, it would be a very good option. But, even a 'wicked' witchdoctor like myself, wouldn't take that risk."

"Are you saying an exorcism could harm the children?" T'Challa asked, bringing his other hand to rest on Ororo's belly, next to her hand.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But an exorcism is a drastic ritual, one that demands a lot from the host's body. Ororo's in excellent condition and she's a mutant, but I simply don't know what will happen if I dare to try. Worse yet, it could trigger her mutant powers."

"Meaning?" Shuri was the one to ask.

"It means your witchdoctor could do something that would trigger her mutant powers without her being conscious enough to control them."

All eyes turned to Dr. Somide.

"Yes, I know everyone thinks I'm a blundering idiot when it comes to mutants," she said defensively. "But it doesn't take a mutant expert to know how powerful Ororo is and how much mental and physical effort it takes for her to not send us all into the next Ice Age or an equally horrific environmental disaster. If we allow this quack to muck around trying to purge whatever it is that's inside of her, we may be facing more than a curse and a portal."

What a sobering thought, T'Challa having already assessed the unfortunate situation. The logical next step was obvious. He turned to his sister.

"Go to Niganda Beach and see if you can locate the witch. Once the person is found, do whatever it takes to make her or him close the portal."

"My pleasure," Shuri said, cracking her knuckles, a vicious gleam in her eyes.

"Don't kill the witch, Shuri," T'Challa warned.

"If you haven't noticed, big brother, you're the politician and I'm the enforcer. You have finesse but I have the claws. If the witch doesn't talk, I'm going to squeeze his throat until the spell spews out or blood spurts forth. Either way, it'll be very painful."

T'Challa could do nothing but shake his head. This was the reason why Shuri came to him two and a half years ago. For Wakanda's defense, Shuri made for a formidable Black Panther. But being the nation's protector also meant being its head of state. She would grow into the position as he had, and as had their uncle and father. But after Doomwar, Wakanda was in a precarious position, having lost their edge in the world with the loss of their cache of vibranium.

T'Challa blamed Doom but he blamed himself more. So he found himself in Hell's Kitchen, no money, no family, no gadgets, just his wits, his brawn, and his heart. He went there to find himself, running from all he was, thinking such a trial of independence would bring enlightenment. It had, but not in the way he'd envisioned.

But Shuri had come to him, bringing news of home, a plan, and brutal honesty.

_I'm no good at running a country. I'm not made for diplomacy and other such bullshit. I like to call it as I see it and the games politicians play make me want to throw them from the nearest bridge. But this abrasive attitude gets me nowhere. You have patience and understand their minds, T'Challa. I simply want to beat the shit out of whoever threatens our way of life, our people. You can be king, run the nation the way someone with your intelligence and heart can. I'll remain its champion, its Black Panther._

"You can't kill a citizen of Niganda, Shuri," Ramonda said. "We have no cause, no proof, and no permission to even be in the country."

She rolled her eyes, a childish concession, but their mother said nothing.

"Then what do you suggest?" she asked.

"T'Challa can go with you."

The voice was low and cracked. But that wasn't what made everyone's jaw drop.

"Don't stop talking on my account."

It was the most beautiful hoarse voice T'Challa had ever heard.

"You're awake," he said, an obvious statement, and one everyone else seemed to be repeating, equally dumbstruck.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked, checking Ororo's pupils.

"Tired," she slurred. "A part of me was conscious, while another part felt chained by an indescribable force."

"So you heard everything that was said?" T'Challa asked, taking his wife's hand in his and bringing it to his lips.

She nodded, her eyes drooping like she would fall back into a deep slumber. She seemed to shake off the fatigue and opened her eyes wider.

"Something's in me but I don't know what. I don't think it's fully sentient but I get the feeling it won't stay that way for long."

"How much time do we have?" T'Challa asked.

"I'm not sure, but—'' she swallowed hard, troubled blue eyes meeting his, "—I think it's connected to the babies somehow."

His hand tightened before he realized that he may be hurting her. T'Challa loosened his grip, giving Ororo an apologetic smile.

"Are you sure?" T'Challa asked.

"It's a feeling."

"Okay, so that gives us about three weeks to find the witch and close the portal," Shuri said. "That's more than enough time."

Ororo sighed and closed her eyes.

"I don't think the twins will wait that long."

"Are you in labor?" Dr. Somide asked, her eyes flying to the machines tracking Ororo's vitals.

"Not yet."

"So how do you know, beloved?"

She gave what looked like a valiant attempt at a shrug. "I just do."

"Days? Hours? Do you know, Ororo? I'll find and kill the witch for you, I just need to know how fast I need to work," Shuri said, looking as if she would bolt from the room in search of the unknown prey.

"It'll be faster if the king goes with you like Ororo suggested."

"I'm not leaving my wife while she's in this condition, Zawari."

"But—'' his mother started, his vehement shake of his head cutting her off.

Ororo struggled with her words, but they were clear. "Everyone except for my husband leave. Shuri, please prepare to depart for Niganda within the hour. Your brother will be joining you shortly. Once they have gone, I'll need the three of you back in here," she said, nodding to Dr. Somide, Ramonda, and Zawari. "There are a few things we need to discuss."

The queen had spoken and no one dared argue. That is, except him.

"There is no way in hell I'm leaving. Shuri can take care of the witch and the portal," T'Challa said after the door closed behind his mother.

She looked so fragile laying there in bed, white sheets covering her from chest to toes. It was a deceptive truth. Ororo was always stronger than she appeared, both physically and emotionally. She was his rock, always had been. But it was time for him to take care of her now. He wouldn't run off to Niganda while she struggled with the intruder inside her, trying to keep their children from harm. His place was beside her. He wouldn't leave.

"Go with her."

He shook his head.

"Go. You can do nothing for me here."

"No."

"Go!"

"I won't." He glared at her. Why was she being so damn stubborn? Didn't she understand what she was asking of him? He'd made a promise. What if something happened to her or the babies while he was gone? What if she went into labor and Dr. Somide really couldn't handle delivering two mutant babies? What if—

"You won't be abandoning us by leaving, T'Challa."

His eyes softened to two welting petals.

"I know that's what's really bothering you, keeping you here when you should be boarding a plane with Shuri."

"I promised," he said softly.

She reached for him and he went, cautiously taking the offered embrace, keeping his weight off her as they hugged.

"I love you, beloved, but the battle here isn't one you can fight or win. Your skills are needed with Shuri in Niganda. Find the witch, the portal, and then come home to us. We'll be here."

Her warm honeyed breath stroked the cold embers that had formed ever since she collapsed. He didn't want to leave her, his heart screamed 'No,' but his mind knew she was correct. Time was of the essence, and he and Shuri could get more done together than if she was by herself.

"What do you want to discuss with the others? What if you go into labor? I won't miss the birth of our children."

She kissed his cheek and ran a hand through his hair, pulling him closer. "Trust me to keep them and myself safe. Find the witch, close the portal, and come home," she repeated, not answering his questions.

He leaned up, their eyes locking and holding. She trusted him to not abandon her. He'd promised to never leave her or their children. But he'd also promised to keep his family safe. Reluctantly, he stood tall, releasing his wife. She looked so tired, but he knew if she didn't believe she could handle what was inside of her she would tell him. Looking at her surprisingly calm face, T'Challa knew it had less to do with trust and more to do with faith. Did he have enough faith to do what needed to be done? He hoped he did.

Ororo's lips were sweet and soft when he kissed her goodbye. T'Challa ran from the room, refusing to look back, his resolve strong but not that strong. He would go because she would have it no other way. He would go to keep his promise. He would go because some witch dared to curse him and threaten his family.

T'Challa took the seat next to his sister on the plane.

"Engage stealth mode," she said, the plane's artificial intelligence complying with the command. "We don't want to raise the ire of Niganda's government by our uninvited presence." She laughed. "I'm going to enjoy ripping that witch's throat out. No one fucks with our family and gets away with it."

T'Challa raised an eyebrow at his sister's word choice but said nothing. For once, they were in absolute agreement. Now, who would do the throat ripping was open for debate.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	5. Chapter 5: A Blast of Reality

**Chapter 5: A Blast of Reality**

**Part 1**

From his perch in the co-pilot seat, T'Challa could see the patterned landscape below, the jet silently cutting through the clouds that reminded him of the ones painted on the walls of the twins' nursery. He and Ororo had decorated the room themselves, surprising the palace staff who'd rushed around laying out drop cloths to avoid paint on the marble floor, eyeing them both warily when they managed more paint on their overalls than on the walls. It may not have turned out to be the masterpiece the designer envisioned when she shared her thoughts with them of the "perfect" baby room, but it meant so much more to the perspective parents to have done it themselves. In fact, spending three hours a day alone with Ororo in the nursery talking and laughing like a "normal" couple couldn't be measured by any tool known to man. It was during those weeks that T'Challa realized all he'd almost squandered away when he became the protector of Hell's Kitchen—a wife, a family, a country.

A soft but strong hand touched his forearm, and T'Challa turned. "We'll handle the portal and the witch and get home before the twins are born," Shuri said, her reassuring words not reaching her intelligent brown eyes. "Besides, Ororo wouldn't have sent you if she couldn't handle it."

"That's not why she booted me out of the palace." He paused, running a thumb over his shiny, gold wedding band. And T'Challa could still feel the echo of Ororo's trembling fingers when she slid it on, her cerulean eyes shimmering with happiness and pride. "She has a plan and thinks I can't handle it if it involves putting herself in danger."

"What kind of plan? I mean, I can't imagine there's something Ororo knows about ridding herself of her unwanted guest that Zawari didn't share with us."

T'Challa scratched his forehead, pondering his sister's words. "She would sacrifice herself if she thought it would protect the twins."

"Okay, I can actually see her doing something like that, but—oh, I get it. She's trying to protect you from making that decision."

T'Challa nodded. "My wife or my children? Which life is more sacred to me?"

"Yeah, hell of a choice for you to make. So, if you know that's her plan, why are you here?"

"To make sure she doesn't have to make that decision. Ororo isn't rash, she won't jump the gun. I imagine her plotting mind has already come up with a couple of tactics she'll go with first. She will—of course— attempt to _gently_ persuade the entity to leave on its own as a rational first step."

"How can she do that? Zawari already advised against an exorcism. It's not like this is a tangible foe; she can't just zap the damn thing with a bolt of lightning."

T'Challa wished that were true. It would do wonders for his migraine if it were.

"In order for Ororo to manipulate weather patterns, she must have absolute control over her mind and body. She can literally regulate the temperature of her body, locate, and kill even the most benign viral invader."

Shuri gave him a doubtful look before maneuvering them out of the path of a commercial plane who wouldn't be able to pick up the unregistered and cloaked jet on its radar.

"Why do you think Doom added a self-destruct mechanism to the nanites his minions slipped into our food and water supply? He knew the first person I would go to if I ever discovered his plan. Besides me, the only other person he credited with being able to thwart his plan to steal our vibranium was Ororo. They have a long, contentious history. If I told her about the nanites, the first thing she would've done was to destroy the electrical pulse, but in so doing, she may have triggered the self-destruct mechanism. I couldn't take that chance."

He watched as Shuri considered his words, her brows knitting in concern. "I remember you telling me that. Are you having second thoughts? Do you think you were wrong back then?"

"We'll never know. Ororo believes she could've done it safely." He shrugged, one of many arguments they had had after stopping Doom and arresting the treasonist Destauri. "The bottom line," T'Challa said, his thumb continuing the rhythmic back and forth on his ring, "she can manipulate her body in a way that I can't begin to understand. She won't allow harm to come to the children—she'd promised—but that doesn't mean Ororo can rid herself of the entity without hurting herself in the process."

"I don't get it. How can she rip that thing from her without impacting the twins?"

T'Challa had no idea and seriously wondered if Ororo knew herself. Then again, he had to admit, his wife would never do anything to endanger the lives of her children. Meaning, whatever her plan, she would have to be damn sure it would work or she wouldn't do it. That was the reason he could leave her. Trust. He trusted her implicitly. And she was right. He would be of more use to her in the field instead of hovering about her like a worried father-to-be.

"I'm sure if there's a way, Ororo will figure it out," T'Challa answered, relaxing into the supple black leather chair. They would arrive in Nigandan air space in less than three hours. What in the hell was he going to do with himself in the meantime? He closed his eyes, trying for meditative calm but succumbing to the all too-frequent memories of old.

**Part 2**

The Bronx neighborhood was as it always was when T'Challa ventured to this side of town—noisy with the sound of loud talking, laugher, and excitement. The street had an energy to it that was hypnotic with a subtle taste of danger lurking behind the cheery façade; such was life in the northernmost borough of New York City.

T'Challa hoisted his duffle bag over his shoulder and ran across the street, avoiding taxis and cyclists who could give a rat's ass about rules of the road or pedestrian right-of-way. He reached the brownstone, dug around in the pants pocket of his faded jeans, and pulled out a single, unmarked silver key. They'd given it to him almost a year ago when he started the monthly visits. This place had been his safe haven, a secure site where he could be himself, around people who didn't ask questions, only gave love and support.

T'Challa shimmied the key in the door lock before unlocking the deadbolt. Once inside, he was surprised to hear loud reggae music blaring and the smell of . . . chocolate chip cookies? He thought they left for the weekend, perhaps not. Still, he'd never known the couple, even their grandson, to listen to that kind of music, and definitely not at a volume that would deafen a room of otolaryngologists.

Slowly, T'Challa closed the door and placed his bag by the front closet. With the caution of a lion stalking a deer, T'Challa made his way from the foyer and toward the delicious smell. Moving along the walls, T'Challa entered the living room, glancing over at the sound system. Bob Marley and the Wailers concert was playing on the flat screen television bolted on a wall overtop of the three-sectional suede sofa. Recorded over thirty years ago while Marley was touring in support of his album _Uprising_, Live Forever was Bob Marley's last recorded concert. T'Challa knew the DVD well and the owner.

Relaxing, he made his way through the living room, stopping at the threshold to the kitchen. In front of him was a sensually swaying goddess, her long legs and deliciously rounded backside tempting him with her siren's call. She danced perfectly in tune with _No Woman No Cry, _her mass of white curls swinging about toned shoulders, mimicking the movement of her hips, causing a distant throb in T'Challa's pants. The throb was growing stronger, more persistent with each gyration of her hips and undulation of her head. T'Challa, not too proud to admit to the unbridled affect his wife had on him, even when she was doing nothing more than cooking while enjoying her favorite reggae singer. But damn, the way she moved should be outlawed in most states of the union for threatening an unarmed man with an unconcealed weapon of sexual arousal.

Just as the thought of letting her know he was in the house entered his lust-clouded brain, Ororo spun around and yelped. Reflexively, her hands shot up, a cold blast of wind sending T'Challa into the living room, the back wall catching him with a heavy thud. In the instant it had taken him to realize his wife had sent him sailing across the room, was the same time it had taken Ororo to realize the same thing. Dazed, T'Challa heard quick steps and mumbled curses.

"Damn it, T'Challa, you know better than to sneak up on me like that. I could've really hurt you," she said, hands studiously exploring him for injuries. And while his head hurt like hell, he wouldn't complain, Ororo's warm hands gliding over his body could cure all that ailed him.

Apparently satisfied that he didn't have any broken bones, Ororo sat back on her knees, and eyed him. She looked at him for a long time and T'Challa wondered what she was thinking. It had, in fact, been a _long_ time since they'd last seen each other in person, the impersonal webcam not quite the same as the beautiful, full-bodied woman before him. The silence stretched between them, Ororo's eyes holding his, her teeth finding her lower lip and delicately nipping, unknowingly reigniting his flame. Finally, without saying a word, she rose, turned, and went back into the kitchen.

T'Challa remained slumped against the cracked wall, not because he was too injured to stand, but too shocked by his wife's less than hospitable greeting. No, even that was wrong. In order for her to greet him, hospitable or otherwise, she actually would have had to utter at least a syllable. Hell, the blast of wind was warmer than the silent reception. Chocking it up to the shock of seeing him after so many months without any real contact, T'Challa swallowed his pride, stood, and followed his wife.

He reached the threshold again and—this time—knew she was aware of his presence. He wanted to talk with her, but the music was piercing his eardrums and he didn't want to compete against a dead man. T'Challa grimaced; it would be just his luck that the deceased Jamaican would win. T'Challa backed away from the kitchen, located the power button on the DVD player, and pushed. Ah, blessed silence.

"I was listening to that," Ororo said, when he took up his post at the threshold.

"The lady speaks," he joked, trying to gauge the extent of her foul mood.

Ignoring him, she leaned down, reaching into the oven, hands covered by two cooking mitts. In spite of himself, T'Challa's gaze fell to the enticing sight before him. It was chauvinist he knew, but there was something about seeing this domestic side of his wife that made him want to—

"You know, Ororo, there are laws against deafening your neighbors."

She glared at him before finding a spot on the counter for her cookies to cool.

"Did you hear the music before you came in?" she asked with a haughty lilt to her voice and a hand on her curvy hip.

He hadn't in fact, nor had he given much thought to it, his mind and body otherwise engaged by the singing, swinging temptress. Who, in spite of her un-amused expression, did nothing to curb T'Challa's desire for her. In fact . . .

T'Challa walked up to her, closing the distance between them. He was so close that Ororo would either have to back up into the hot oven or move T'Challa to get around him. As expected, she did neither, the challenge in her eyes unmistakable. T'Challa inched closer, nose flaring to inhale her scent—lavender with a hint of jasmine. He'd forgotten. Damn, how could he have forgotten?

_Too long. M__uch too long._

His nose grazed her cheek and then her neck, the vein there pulsing heavy and deep, an uncontrollable reaction to his nearness. This pleased T'Challa, but it wasn't enough. His tongue snaked out and licked her there, a rush of blood making it dance for him. T'Challa slid his long tongue down her neck, tasting Ororo with teeth and lips, caressing each point as he drew her into his mouth, sucking as if to devour her.

She gulped, brought her hands to his chest as if to push him away, and then stopped when he wrapped his arms around her, pressing himself into her even more. Ororo's eyes widened and he smiled coolly. She could feel his need for her through his jeans, the erection hard and aching, begging to be set free.

"T'Challa we really need to—''

He kissed her then, his tongue taking advantage, slipping into her warm, unexpected mouth, claiming Ororo with a sudden bolt of desperation. She tasted of rich dark chocolate, probably what she used to make the wonderfully aromatic cookies. Her tongue was sweet and expressive, dipping into his mouth and finding his, a soft sigh of acquiescence escaping her.

How long had it been? Too long. T'Challa's heart raced, every inch of his taut frame tingled with a sizzling electrical current that started where his mouth crushed Ororo's, slithered languidly down to where her soft breasts molded against his chest, and ending where his groin rubbed against her stomach.

Something clattered to the kitchen linoleum and T'Challa glanced down at six buttons spinning on the floor, two skidding across the room and under the refrigerator. He looked back up to see Ororo's white laced bra peeking out from behind an opened black blouse. Not caring that he'd apparently tried to rip his wife's shirt off, he took hold of her neck with one hand, pulling her mouth back to his, while grabbing her waist with his other hand.

And she returned his kiss with as much hunger and passion burning within him, the quickly erupting fire driving all thoughts from his mind as to what she was doing at her grandparents and why she'd reacted the way she did when he'd first arrived. Whatever the reason for her initial frost, she wasn't feeling it now, not the way she was scorching his back with her nails every time he thrust his sheathed erection against her, or the impatient way she forced his shirt over his head.

T'Challa grabbed her hips, rubbing her against him slowly and deliberately, guiding his hands around to her backside, palming and squeezing, bringing a ragged squeal from Ororo. He found the zipper on her knee-length black and gray skirt, and slid it down, pushing the garment over succulent hips and down slender legs. She stepped out of it, looking down at him with eyes an aroused shade of navy blue.

Ororo was breathing heavily, pulling T'Challa back to his feet. He came willingly, running his hands up her thighs as he stood. She kissed him first this time, her mouth slanting, deepening the kiss. T'Challa's hand searched her out, his index finger gliding over the outline of her panties. Slowly, he traced her right side, and then her left, avoiding the center, a deep moan of frustration coming from Ororo. He did it again, and again, moving faster with each trek, Ororo's kisses becoming more demanding, her hips rocking into him, wanting more.

He heard a thunderclap. Then another, and another still. T'Challa finally gave in, his right hand seeking and finding exquisite wetness.

"T-T'Challa, please," Ororo moaned, when one finger became two, and two became three. He slid out of her, fingers drawing out the moistness, up and over that tiny bud that gave her so much pleasure. He circled it with his wet fingers, making it as hard and erect as he was until Ororo could take it no longer. She broke their kiss, taking deep gulps as he forced the orgasm out of her, his fingers rubbing relentlessly, sliding back in and hitting that sweet spot, the ridges his guide to her control.

While she was still in the throes of her release, T'Challa lifted Ororo, spun them around, and made his way to the large sofa. He fell on top of her, both of their hands going to the buttons on his pants. Ororo's hands still trembled, but his didn't falter. He needed to be inside her now, while the affects of her release still burned.

T'Challa managed the double fly and Ororo easily, if not impatiently, dragged his pants and boxers down just enough. Oh, yes, just enough and he was inside, thrusting hard, almost wild, searching for the release he'd just given her, taking Ororo along for the ride.

So close. He was so close, the building tension excruciating and wonderful. The legs that had been wrapped so snugly around his waist, and the hands that had been aggressively sinking into his ass, pushing him forward suddenly loosened, and then let go.

"Not in me," Ororo's breathless voice came, her words barely breaching his mind.

"What? God, baby, I'm almost there. Just give me—"

"Don't come in me, T'Challa." She pushed against his chest, not hard, just enough to get his attention.

"But it's right at the ti—'' Ororo scooted from under T'Challa, quickly grabbing him in her experienced hand and finishing him before he had a chance to protest or catch his breath. She stroked him, his seed spilling into her hand, and she stroked him longer, milking him completely, T'Challa's eyes glued to Ororo, watching her work him the way no other woman ever could.

Breathing hard, they stared at each other, T'Challa leaning over Ororo, too exhausted to move, and too stunned by her actions to formulate the obvious question.

Eventually, he did sit back, allowing Ororo to rise. She found her white laced panties, the ones that matched her bra, and T'Challa wondered how'd they'd gotten on the other side of the room. While he struggled to pull his clothes up, Ororo walked away from him, and a minute later T'Challa heard running water. He turned to see her drying her hands, and then she bent down grabbing the buttons off the floor.

She turned the light off in the kitchen, picked up her skirt, and looked at him. Again, she wore that same unreadable expression. "I'm going to take a shower," she said, and then started to walk away.

T'Challa jumped over the couch and met her at the steps. "What in the hell is going on, Ororo? Why are you acting like this?"

And that damn expression crossed her face once more. T'Challa was truly tiring of that look.

"When can we go home?" she asked, her hand resting on the banister.

She'd posed the same question six months ago, and four months before that. His answer hadn't changed and now she waited for his response, the skirt being crushed in her hand the longer he remained silent.

"That's what I thought," she said, and then flew up the stairs, a gust of wind smacking him in the face as if it was her hand delivering the blow.

T'Challa waited in the guest bedroom while Ororo showered. He'd recovered, donned his shirt, and turned the stove off, all before slinking after his infuriated wife. He'd been foolish enough to believe that she'd accepted the separation, the time he was devoting to the innocent people of Hell's Kitchen. T'Challa was convinced she supported his need to define himself without money, advanced tech, or a powerful mutant as a wife. Or maybe he simply needed to believe all those things. But she had said she understood and no matter how she was acting now, T'Challa knew she'd spoken the truth then.

T'Challa scanned the modest room, giving it an appraising look and then smiling. He loved this room, the Munroes allowing Ororo to claim it as her own once he'd managed to bring them together. It had taken a little ingenuity on his part, but with a little luck he found her paternal grandparents. It was one of those priceless gifts that just kept on giving, the sadly blissful smiles on their faces when granddaughter met grandparents would forever be etched in T'Challa's mind. Except for their wedding day, T'Challa had never seen Ororo look so happy, so at peace with herself.

He slumped on the queen-size bed, the thick brown and white comforter neatly hanging to the carpeted floor. The walls matched the white in the covering and the cases on the four pillows, taupe accents on the borders and two windows that faced the street side of the house. Every time he visited the Munroes T'Challa looked forward to staying in this room, sleeping in this very bed, smelling Ororo on the sheets, in the air.

He'd take every precaution to come when she wasn't slated to be around. T'Challa would never admit that to her—of course—and he'd sworn the Munroes to secrecy. Seeing her in person would've been just too difficult, mudding his mind with thoughts he could ill afford to have. He hadn't accomplished his goal yet, and to see his wife, talk with her, hold her in his arms and make love to her . . . well, a man was but so strong.

So why was she here? The Munroes said they were going away for the weekend and asked if he would house sit. They knew he would be here. Did they plan this? Did they invite Ororo here as well knowing he would be here? And if so, for what purpose? It had been a year since he started visiting them, the closest he could get to his wife without actually seeing her. It was a coward's move, but one he tolerated as an acceptable weakness. A year. Why would they betray him now? Or was it a simple mistake, poor timing on everyone's part?

T'Challa turned his head as the door to the bedroom squeaked open. Her eyes flashed to him on the bed and his went to the silky red robe she wore, the mid-thigh length reminding him of their encounter downstairs.

Ororo walked deeper into the bedroom, her eyes saying she wasn't surprised to find him waiting for her. Yet she made no attempt at conversation, instead, she moved to the suitcase at the foot of the bed. Lifting it, she dropped it onto the bed, mere inches from where T'Challa was sitting. Ignoring him, she opened the burgundy leather case, and fished out undergarments, shorts and a Nike t-shirt with a white swoosh on the front and the words: 'Just do it' in black lettering on the back.

She dressed in silence, avoiding eye contact, and T'Challa watched, wondering again why the Munroes had set this all in motion. He was convinced of it now. Outside of coincidence—which was highly overrated in his opinion—there really was no rational reason for them to be in this house on the same weekend when their paths had never crossed in almost a year. He'd made sure of it; damn sure.

"Why are you here, T'Challa?" He'd gotten so use to the silent treatment she was giving him that it took him a second to realize she had actually asked him a question and that he'd apparently blanked out while she'd dressed.

"Why are you here instead of in Hell's Kitchen?" she repeated. "I thought you couldn't leave that place without its precious protector." Her tone was soft but resonated a deep hurt he'd never heard before. Then again, he wondered, perhaps she'd simply never let him hear it, a woman's pride no less than a man's.

"Your grandparents asked me to housesit."

Her laugh was low and bitter. "They asked me to do the same. I guess this was their way of playing matchmakers."

She walked away from the bed—and him—locating the double papasan chair with wooden base and brown cushion and sat. She curled her long, lean legs into the chair. The way she did when they shared this room three Christmases ago, christening every inch of the room including the chair where she now reclined.

"Why would they feel a need to play matchmaker? We're already married." T'Challa leaned forward, considering his wife whose eyes shifted down and away.

"What was all of that about downstairs?" he asked.

She shrugged. "A release of pent up sexual tension," she breezily answered, bringing her hand up to brush wet strands of hair away from her face. Ororo readjusted the twisty she wore her hair in, tucking in the errant strands, returning her gaze to him once she was done.

_Pent up sexual tension._ It was at that, T'Challa not taking the time to do it properly. He withheld the grimace he felt forming, the guilt that had developed after the affects had worn off still poked at him. Ororo deserved better than a quick groping and moaning session with her husband after so long apart. But that wasn't what he was referring to and T'Challa had an unsettling feeling that Ororo knew it.

"Not that, Ororo, the last bit."

She gave a pregnant pause and then said, "You weren't wearing a condom."

"I haven't worn a condom since we married and you started taking birth control pills. You know that so why—''

He watched as her gaze faltered, sliding from him and back to the floor, a sinking feeling forming in his stomach. "You stopped taking the pills?"

She nodded.

"How long ago?"

No answer.

"Why?"

No answer.

"Damn it, Ororo, talk to me," he swore, jumping from the bed and moving toward her. He knelt in front of her, hands going to her knees. She flinched but didn't move.

"Why, beloved?" he asked again, T'Challa's voice as smooth as he could make it.

"There's no point taking unnecessary medication, T'Challa." Her eyes met his and there was anger and pain. "I think you can agree that I've had no need for such pills. Unless you think I've taken a lover to make me feel better about my husband hiding out in Hell's Kitchen licking his wounds, refusing all my attempts to be a real wife to him."

Her eyes hardened and then she closed them momentarily, leaning her head against the cushion. Her choice of words were no less painful than a knife wound to the heart—deadly and accurate. Of course T'Challa didn't think Ororo would betray him with another man, no more than he would risk his marriage by bedding another woman. But she'd stopped taking her pills and there could only be one reason why.

"You thought I wasn't coming back to you."

"You haven't come back to me, remember? You refuse every time I ask, like today. How many times? How many times have I asked you when we could go home? And how many of those times have you said 'Just awhile longer, Ororo. Be patient, Ororo. We'll be together soon, Ororo'? How many times, T'Challa? How many damn times have you told me that over the last year and a half? Her voice pitched just shy of a yell, her teeth grinding together as she fought for control.

_A year and a half._ Had it truly been _that_ long? It hadn't felt like it to him, living in the darkness, waiting for that moment when he knew he was ready to return to the light, to her. _A year and a half. _

Bile started to bubble as her words swarmed through his brain like loud, buzzing locusts. Why had the Munroes set them up? Why were they playing matchmakers after so long?

"Why do you suppose your grandparents asked us both to housesit, Ororo?"

She didn't answer, which wasn't the same as saying she didn't have an answer. Ororo knew, and T'Challa would bet she'd spent a good deal of time in the shower pondering the same question.

"They want to see me happy," she finally said, her voice a cool, detached calm.

She said no more. T'Challa rose and sat next to her.

"And do you think I can no longer make you happy?"

"I think you have no interest in making anyone happy, not even yourself." Another truthfully violent stab and T'Challa absorbed it with nary a flinch of the pain he actually felt.

"I-I didn't mean to cause you pain. That was never my intention. I thought you were fine with the arrangement."

"I was . . . in the beginning when I thought it would be over in a couple of months, six at the most. But then it went on longer and longer with no end in sight. You didn't seem to care and I couldn't make you see how much we all needed you . . . how much _I_ needed you. You wouldn't even let me visit you even when I suggested coming in disguise."

"I had to find my own path, see what kind of man I am without all the trappings holding me up."

She shook her head and gave a humorless laugh. "I guess I would be one of those "trappings."

"You're twisting my words."

"No, I've finally started to really listen to them. You haven't found whatever in the hell you're looking for in that god forsaken place. You aren't ready to resume your life in Wakanda or with me. If my grandparents hadn't tricked us, we wouldn't be here together now. What am I supposed to do with a husband who isn't a husband at all?"

And the knife made its last plunge, the blade breaking, embedding itself deep in his heart, cutting off circulation, his breath now labored.

"I won't sign it?"

"Sign what?"

T'Challa stood, his eyes never leaving Ororo's.

"The divorce papers. That's why the Munroes got us both here, right? You told them or they somehow found out. However it happened, they felt they needed to do something, intervene in some kind of way."

She opened her mouth to say something but T'Challa cut her off.

"I don't care what some shyster American lawyer told you, only a Wakandan judge can make that final call. And," he snarled, "only if both of us sign the papers agreeing to the dissolution of the marriage. And I won't sign."

Ororo stood as well, her beautiful blue eyes peering up at him. Bast how he loved her, wanted her, dreamed of her every night. He wouldn't let her go; T'Challa would fight, even her.

"I want to go home, T'Challa, and I want to go there with you."

Her words were softly spoken, the hand that settled on his cheek even softer. "I can't . . . I _won't_ keep doing this with you. Understand, this isn't an ultimatum, I'm simply being honest. I love you. I want to be married to you. And I dream about the day when we'll be parents." She dropped her hand to her side. "I haven't initiated any legal proceedings, but Emma did give me a business card of a lawyer who specializes in divorces with couples like us—married in a spouse's home country, but the other having American citizenship. I don't know if Emma thought she was being helpful or being her normal bitch self, but I probably left it here somewhere when I last visited, apparently sending my grandparents into hysterics that they felt they had to do something."

T'Challa was cautious enough to not be relieved by her statement. Emma may have provided the card, but Ororo had not only taken it, but packed it when she visited her grandparents. Meaning, she wasn't shocked by the suggestion and was probably even considering calling the lawyer. He wondered if she'd already done so, if not the lawyer in question, then another.

She walked away from him, sat on the bed, and pulled a pair of ankle socks and tennis shoes from her suitcase. Ororo placed them on her feet and stood. Walking toward the door as silently as she'd come in, Ororo turned. "The future of this marriage rests squarely in your hands, T'Challa. Don't fool yourself into believing that it's me driving this car down the dark, winding road into oblivion. I'm merely a passenger who will jump to safety before it skids off the road into the jagged rocks below."

Ororo stepped into the hallway, gave T'Challa one last look, and said, "I'm going for a jog, if you're not ready to turn Hell's Kitchen back over to Daredevil, then please don't be here when I return."

"We're here."

"Ororo?"

"No, Shuri. We're here, T'Challa, wake up."

Slowly, T'Challa opened his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face, and sitting up.

"I would ask what you dreamed about, but from the look on your face I'd say it was a nightmare."

T'Challa gulped; mouth dry. "It's was, but not as bad as the one I'll have if we don't close the portal and stop the witch who cursed me."

He looked out of the window and pointed. "There. Get us a bit lower, initiate autopilot, and then we'll jump. Once we've taken care of everything, we can use the remote and have the jet pick us up."

Shuri did as instructed, following him as he vaulted out the door, the cold air meeting him, reminding T'Challa of that blast from Ororo two years ago. It was a blast of many, nearly resulting in a divorce.

They landed on the dark, empty beach, crouching. The panther mask went over his head, covering his face, all unwanted memories having faded with his free fall. It was time for business. Time to show he was indeed the man without fear.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	6. Chapter 6: Plan A

**Chapter 6: Plan A**

**Part 1**

Ororo sat up in bed, stilled as a wave of nausea washed over her. She clutched the side railing, closed her eyes, and pushed back against the unwelcome flood. She could do this; she had to do this. What choice did she have?

"I don't like this, Ororo."

"So you've said, Dr. Somide, _many times_," Ororo added, opening her eyes.

"But you're not listening to me," Dr. Somide complained, her slender hands going to her hips, her voice sounding more like a petulant child than an accomplished, respected physician.

Next came the legs, Ororo swinging them over the side of the bed, causing her doctor to gasp when Ororo almost lost her balance. Dr. Somide moved swiftly to Ororo then, taking her by the arm. The doctor's eyes were gentle, compassionate even, but her grip was forcefully supportive.

"You don't have to do this. You need to stay right here where I can safely monitor you and the babies."

Ororo shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. She could do this, but she was so tired. And it didn't help that she was only wearing a hospital robe that tied indiscreetly in the back.

"You can monitor us there, Dr. Somide." Ororo held her hand up when the doctor made to protest. "I know it's not the same, but you'll just have to make do. I trust you'll make the necessary arrangements, have the proper equipment and staff on hand in the event of an emergency."

"What if you go into labor?"

"Then you'll be there to deliver the twins." Ororo smiled at her doctor who was looking up at her with unguarded concern and anger. She was a competently stubborn woman and Ororo knew her request challenged the doctor's credo to 'do no harm.' It wasn't harmful per se, but Ororo could understand why it would bother Dr. Somide.

"Of course I'll be there," Dr. Somide snapped, holding onto Ororo's waist to steady her. "What other choice have you left me?" The good doctor mumbled something about bullheadedness and the royal family. Ororo suppressed a laugh, Dr. Somide was only doing her job, and yes, the royal family was a bullheaded lot.

But this wasn't about bullheadedness, it was about being smart, being safe. Keeping _everyone_ safe, including the very disgruntled obstetrician.

"I'll take it from here, Zinda." Ororo looked at her mother-in-law. The green of her dress seemed to make the wisdom Ororo always saw in her dark brown eyes sparkle with a depth of knowledge that could only come with years of experience.

Dr. Somide and Ramonda shared a look that Ororo didn't bother to interpret. The Queen Mother was the mother to all Wakandans, including Zinda Somide, whose mother served as the royal family's personal physician for thirty years.

But it was the senior Dr. Somide who was shot and killed when she'd refused to insert the mutant inhibiting nanites into Ororo when Ororo was arrested by the Desturi. In fact, upon learning of Ororo's arrest, Dr. Amina Somide destroyed all of the royal family's medical files and ordered the Research and Design Department to do the same for the palace's cache of vibranium nanites.

So, when she was called before the Desturi leader to give the injection, Amina had flat out refused, not bothering to confess that there were no nanites for her to inject Ororo with, even if she wanted to. Of course, this came out later, Amina having sacrificed her life for nothing. There were, Ororo soon discovered, other ways to control her mutant powers, the nanites were only option one.

"I'll take care of, Ororo," Ramonda said. "You have other matters to attend to. I'll make sure she gets there safely, and" Ramonda gave Ororo a stern look, "she'll take the offered wheelchair without complaint. Won't you, dear?"

The look was even sterner now. It was the same glare she skewered T'Challa and Shuri with when she was displeased with them, and it was no less effective on her. Ororo said nothing. And Ramonda smiled, knowing she'd won. It really was a small concession on Ororo's part. Honestly, she didn't think she could make the trek to the basement, and she didn't dare risk using her powers. Who knew the affect it would have on the entity that had taken up residence in her body.

Reluctantly, Dr. Somide released Ororo into the care of Ramonda. "I'll see you within the hour," the doctor said, before closing the door behind her.

Ramonda walked behind Ororo and started to untie her robe. "Are you sure about this?" Ramonda asked, catching the lightweight robe before it fell to the floor. She placed it on the bed, and then walked to the closet to retrieve Ororo's clothes.

Ororo knew Ramonda's concern was different from that of Dr. Somide. Dr. Somide was worried about her physical wellbeing; whereas, Ramonda's concern leaned more toward the psychological aspect of Ororo's plan.

Ororo slipped both arms in the dark blue dress Ramonda had one of the palace servants pack for her. It buttoned up the front and fell comfortably over her nine-month baby belly. It was airy and light, but more importantly, it would make it easier for Dr. Somide to examine Ororo or to undress her, if need be.

Ororo sat on the bed, allowing Ramonda to place a pair of leather sandals on her feet. "It's the best choice," Ororo finally answered, although she knew she wasn't really addressing Ramonda's underlying concern.

Ramonda removed a comb and brush from an overnight bad, and sat behind Ororo. The comb came first, gliding smoothly and delicately through Ororo's hair. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Ramonda continued to comb her hair—slow, gentle strokes that made Ororo feel like a girl again.

"Zawavari and I will stay with you. I won't let you go through this alone." Next came the brush, the boar bristles soft yet firm. "We should have condemned that room years ago."

"It serves a purpose, Ramonda," Ororo answered, eyes still closed, enjoying the motherly pampering. Ororo had a very hard time remembering her own parents. Partial images, unclear sounds, and vague smells were all she now had. The memories of a six-year-old were never meant to last a lifetime.

Yet the feelings of being loved remained. Those Ororo have carried with her, the deep-seated, soul drenched sensations of love, peace, and security could never be vanquished by the unforgiving tides of time. Even though her parents' faces were now blurry in her adult mind, the love they had for her still burned strong, as strong as the love emanating from Ramonda.

"It's a cell not a hospital room. That's the only purpose for a place like that. You don't belong there, not now, not then."

Ramonda was right, of course, at least in part. It was a cell, the very cell she was locked in after Dr. Amina Somide refused to inject Ororo with nanites. Before that though, neck and wrist dampeners were placed on her, preventing Ororo from using her mutant powers. The body clamps were option number two. Option number three was to lock her in a padded cell—created by T'Challa—that served the same purpose as the nanites and the wrist and neck clamps. They all negated the powers of mutants.

"If my plan doesn't work, I may not be able to control my powers. If I'm locked away, I will be of no danger to anyone. Furthermore, Dr. Somide will be able to deliver the babies without fear of me doing something unforeseen that could put us all in harm."

Ramonda said nothing and Ororo knew her mother-in-law agreed—intellectually—with the plan. She also knew Ramonda would do all in her power to help her, but that she felt compelled to express her concerns.

The Queen Mother pulled Ororo's hair back and set to work. Five minutes later, a neat, long French braid hung down Ororo's back. Ramonda stood and faced Ororo, gently placing her hands on Ororo's cheeks before leaning in and placing a loving kiss to her forehead.

Ramonda smiled, and when she did, her eyes lit up, making her appear younger and even more beautiful. "You're going to be a wonderful mother, Ororo. In fact, you already are. You went willingly into that cell the last time to prevent Doom and the Desturi from harming S'Yan and me. And now you're doing it again, in spite of your claustrophobia, in spite of how wretched it makes you feel to be disconnected from that part of yourself."

This woman knew her too well. The same woman who had taken Ororo to see the witch doctor, Zawavari, when T'Challa lay between life and death after Doom attacked him. Ororo was willing to sacrifice her own soul in exchange for that of T'Challa's. The people of Wakanda needed him; the woman soothing Ororo now needed him.

They were her family, Wakanda her home. And for a time, Ororo thought she'd lost both. And just when she'd managed to regain all that she loved, all that she ever wanted, this _curse_ was now putting her future, and the future of her children in danger. To hell with her claustrophobia, to hell with being without her mutant abilities, and to hell with the invader inside her, Ororo thought. She wasn't powerless, and frankly, Ororo was damn tired of people coming after her and the ones she most loved: Erik Killmonger, the Skrulls, the Shadow King, Morlun, Doom, the Desturi. Now some witch was threatening her family. It must stop whatever the cost.

"I'll be fine," Ororo said in her best reassuring voice, but knowing it would do nothing to assuage Ramonda's concern. Hell, she couldn't even allay her own.

Ramonda helped Ororo to her feet and into the wheelchair a nurse had brought in a few minutes ago. "Perhaps if you say that a thousand times, Ororo, one of us will actually believe it. Until then," Ramonda said, spreading a blanket over Ororo's legs after she sat in the wheelchair, "a prayer or two to Bast wouldn't hurt."

**Part 2**

Dull gray surrounded Ororo, like a fog rolling off a toxic lake and onto a deserted pier. The vaguest glimmer of light glowed in the far-off distance, too far to reach, but not so far that its beauty didn't reach Ororo's blue eyes.

And it was beautiful, the tiny sliver of light daring to breach the dreary cold of the achingly morbid fog. Ororo lifted her hand and reached for that light, drawing back bitterness instead of warmth. And bitter it was—sad and angry in fact. Those emotions wafted in the fog as well, the smell of the emotionally malevolent brew rancid and old. So old, Ororo thought, as she pulled her arms around herself, searching for heat but finding none.

"_Who are you?"_ Ororo asked, taking a blind step forward.

"_Who are you?"_ echoed back, a distorted version of Ororo's voice.

Another blind step. And another still, Ororo walking toward that beacon of light. It was too far to reach her mind kept telling her, but her soul knew differently. So she walked, along an invisible path, the feeling of sand squishing below her bare feet, the tiny grains sticking to toes.

And she walked. And walked. And walked, asking the same question with each determined step, _"Who are you?"_ Finally, she added, _"What do you want?"_

"_Who are you? What do you want?" _she repeated countless times, ignoring the constant reverberation of her own voice, the sound of which was doing weird things to her mind. Ororo now thought she heard crying.

A crying baby?

Not quite. Ororo stopped walking, turning in the direction of the faint sound. Not a baby. A woman? The whimpers sounded like that of a crying woman.

Ororo moved swiftly now, her hands outstretched in front of her, feeling as helpless as a blind person without the aid of a white cane or seeing eye dog. And the light was getting closer, the darkness hanging on, refusing to relinquish Ororo to the hope she thought she would find at the end of the tunnel.

Suddenly, Ororo stopped, her feet no longer on the familiar sandy surface, but roughened ground, rocks cutting into her flesh. But she couldn't feel the pain, even as Ororo knew she was bleeding. But she couldn't really be bleeding, no more than she could really be cold. This was nothing more than a magic-induced meditation. One Zawavari would pull Ororo from if her heart rate or blood pressure spiked above an acceptable range. Or—which was more likely the case—Dr. Somide had a guard blow the lock off the door once she discovered Ororo's plan involved more than confining herself to the cell for purpose of controlling her mutant powers.

Ramonda, Goddess bless her soul, was given the unenviable task of distracting Dr. Somide with some asinine concerns about the delivery. To her credit, Ramonda went about it with a straight face, demanding to interview everyone who would be involved in Ororo's care. She wanted to speak with them personally before they would be admitted into the cell. After what happened with the Desturi, Ramonda told Dr. Somide, one could not assume that all Wakandans thought of Ororo as one of their own. What if, Bast forbid, they hadn't rooted out all of the Desturi sympathizers, and one of them took the opportunity to attack Ororo while she was defenseless.

Dr. Somide was livid, of course, but not with Ramonda. But the prospect that one of her staff would dare harm the queen and the babies. She would arrange for interviews right away. And so she had left Ororo alone in the cell, with the promise of returning within the hour. Ten minutes later, Zawavari let himself into the cell, securing it from the inside with some sort of magical lock. And then they began.

And here she was now, inside her mind, trying to find whoever, or whatever the witch unleashed on her family.

The sound came again, but Ororo dare not move. But she saw it then, a figure across the ravine. Yes, a ravine. Ororo didn't have to look down to know there was a huge chasm that separated her from the crying woman—literally and figuratively.

Her hair gleamed bright like yellow spun gold. It wrapped around her body like a heavy shawl, shielding her pale, naked body. But she was there, a willowy form sitting at a river's edge, her tears the source of the flowing water.

And it did flow, from her eyes, down her cheeks, into the river, and over the mountain, a waterfall that kept on falling, no end, no splash, just hollow, lonely, nothingness. At least that's what it felt like to Ororo as she stood watching the woman cry.

"_Who are you?"_ Ororo asked again, wishing she could move closer, or that the woman would lift her head so she could better see her face.

No answer.

Ororo waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

No answer, but the woman's tears had—miraculously, inconceivably—filled the ravine, that apparently, had a bottom after all. But when Ororo focused her eyes on the water that now lapped at her toes, the clear sparkles that dripped from the woman's angelic face had created a river of putrid red blood.

Ororo quickly stepped back from the river's edge, the rocks cutting even deeper into her delicate feet. And then she saw them, the woman's eyes. They were empty, cold, and dark as winter coal.

Blood seeped from the corners of her eyes and the beauty Ororo once thought she saw, was marred by a face contorted in unbelievable agony, undeniable pain.

Ororo took three more steps back but refused to turn and run. She had her attention now, but damn if she really wanted it. Not like this, not when the woman, _the thing_, was looking like death incarnate. Or as incarnate as one could be inside another's mind. Although, Ororo thought, chancing one-step forward, if this thing was given the opportunity to become flesh in the living world, no one would be able to stop her.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Ororo asked again, now fearing the answer.

The woman's head twisted, glaring at Ororo with heart clinching curiosity, then a black python—that wasn't there before—appeared. It slithered from the bloody froth of river and found the woman's leg. Slowly, very slowly, it inched its way from her ankle, up her thigh, and to her shoulder, where it managed to glide its way between her shoulder blades and her impossibly long hair.

And there it rested, it's body curled around the woman's, its head falling to her mid-section, stopping right above her pubic area, looking like the scariest fig leaf Ororo had ever seen.

And with blinding realization, an image popped in her mind. A scene she'd seen many times in books, museums, and paintings.

"Eve?"

The woman's eyes came to life then, the black giving way to fire red, blood blasted from them like sparklers on the Fourth of July, causing the python to hiss at Ororo.

"Not Eve," the woman spat, her voice crackling above Ororo like an approaching tidal wave.

_"Lamia had a vicious sexual appetite that matched her cannibalistic appetite for children. She was notorious for being a vampiric spirit and loved sucking men's blood. He__r gift was the "mark of a Sibyl," a gift of second sight. Zeus was said to have given her the gift of sight. However, she was "cursed" to never be able to shut her eyes so that she would forever obsess over her dead children. Taking pity on Lamia, Zeus, gave her the ability to take her eyes out and in from her eye sockets."_

A careening laughed escaped the woman. She placed one foot in the river, then the other, and Ororo gasped. The river held her weight, her toes and heels as firm on the flowing liquid as a tree on the firmest of soils.

_"The wild beasts of the desert shall also meet with the wild beasts of the island, and the satyr shall cry to his fellow; the "screech owl" also shall rest there, and find for herself a place of rest."_

Ororo couldn't move. She tried, screaming at herself to take a step backward for each one the bloodied woman took toward her. Nothing. Was she paralyzed with fear? Or simply paralyzed?

_"And I, the Instructor__ proclaim, His glorious splendor so as to frighten and to terrify all the spirits of the destroying angels, spirits of the bastards, demons, Lilith, howlers, and desert dwellers . . . and those which fall upon men without warning to lead them astray from a spirit of understanding and to make their heart and their . . . desolate during the present dominion of wickedness and predetermined time of humiliations for the sons of light, by the guilt of the ages of those smitten by iniquity – not for eternal destruction, but for an era of humiliation for transgression."_

"_Move dammit, move?"_

_"Her house sinks down to death. __And her course leads to the shades. All who go to her cannot return And find again the paths of life." _

Ten steps forward, no steps back.

_"Her gates are gates of death, and from the entrance of the house she sets out towards Sheol. None of those who enter there will ever return, and all who possess her will descend to the Pit." _

She was closer now, so close Ororo could smell her breath-volcanic ash and death.

"_After God created Adam, who was alone, He said, 'It is not good for man to be alone.' He then created a woman for Adam, from the earth, as He had created Adam himself, and called her Lilith. Adam and Lilith immediately began to fight. She said, 'I will not lie below,' and he said, 'I will not lie beneath you, but only on top. For you are fit only to be in the bottom position, while I am to be the superior one.' Lilith responded, 'We are equal to each other inasmuch as we were both created from the earth.' But they would not listen to one another. When Lilith saw this, she pronounced the Ineffable Name and flew away into the air._

_Adam stood in prayer before his Creator: 'Sovereign of the universe!' he said, 'the woman you gave me has run away.' At once, the Holy One, blessed be He, sent these three angels Senoy, Sansenoy, and Semangelof, to bring her back. "Said the Holy One to Adam, 'If she agrees to come back, what is made is good. If not, she must permit one hundred of her children to die every day.' The angels left God and pursued Lilith, whom they overtook in the midst of the sea, in the mighty waters wherein the Egyptians were destined to drown. They told her God's word, but she did not wish to return. The angels said, 'We shall drown you in the sea.'_

_"'Leave me!' she said. 'I was created only to cause sickness to infants. If the infant is male, I have dominion over him for eight days after his birth, and if female, for twenty days.' "When the angels heard Lilith's words, they insisted she go back. But she swore to them by the name of the living and eternal God: 'Whenever I see you or your names or your forms in an amulet, I will have no power over that infant.' She also agreed to have one hundred of her children die every day. Accordingly, every day one hundred demons perish, and for the same reason, we write the angels names on the amulets of young children. When Lilith sees their names, she remembers her oath, and the child recovers."_

And the blood ran over Ororo, the python's head soon followed, it's forked tongue whispering in her ear.

"_The Mesopotamians, the Greeks, Christians, Muslims, and Jews, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Bible, and the Talmud all have a story to tell about me. There is truth and falsehoods in each one. I live in them all and exist in none."_

The tongue slithered in her other ear, blood found its way to Ororo's toes, and still she couldn't move. The smell of brimstone—sulfur—assailed her nostrils, burning them, her eyes watering, mixing with the blood.

"_You are no innocent to pain, to heartache. I felt it as soon as I saw you. I wanted to feel it deeper, soak in your pain, the grief and sacrifice you know so well. And it tastes like ambrosia."_

She stretched out that word—ambrosia—like a long awaited moan of pleasure, groan of relief. And Ororo would've shuddered, if she could move. If she could only move.

"_He's hurt you in the past and he'll hurt you again. And again. And again, if you let him. Don't let him, my sweet naive, Ororo. T'Challa doesn't have to be your Adam."_

Ororo struggled, wrenching her head away from the snake, away from Lilith's bleeding eyes and upturned mouth that was a cross between a contemptuous smile and a hungry snarl.

"Remember, Ororo, remember."

The words were soothing and, despite her best effort, Ororo's eyes closed. And she did, remember.

_I can't go back to Wakanda, not yet. I'm still needed in Hell's Kitchen and I have no way of getting in contact with Daredevil, Matt Murdock. If I leave now, the people of that neighborhood will be left unprotected, open to attack by men like Vlad the Impaler. I can't do that to them. I just can't. I'm sorry, Ororo. Please, beloved, forgive me. I love you; don't want to lose you. Just give me a little more time. I promise, I'll make this up to you. Just don't give up on me—on us._

Ororo began to weep, the image of that letter T'Challa left for her on her grandparent's dining room table, met her when she'd returned from her run. She knew, even when she left the house that T'Challa wouldn't be there when she returned. Ororo knew, but she had hoped—prayed—that she was wrong.

"Is everything all right?" Ramonda's voice broke through the foggy haze, Ororo's equilibrium slowly returning.

Ororo opened her eyes, something soft caressing her face. A tissue. Ororo took over the task, taking the tissue from Ramonda's hands.

"How long was I under?" Ororo looked at Zawavari, her question directed at him.

"Thirty minutes."

Thirty minutes? Goddess, it felt like hours, hell, days.

She made to rise from the bed, but Ramonda's hands held her down. "Rest, Ororo, then tell us what you learned."

Ororo didn't have to rest. She was tired, but she remembered it all, just like Lilith had asked her to do. Damn, she remembered. How could she not?

"Her name is Lilith and . . . and she wants me to kill my husband."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	7. Chapter 7: Spider's Web

**Chapter 7: Spider's Web**

Night finally fell over Niganda, the small African nation that bordered Wakanda. Except, in times past, when its leaders posed a threat, T'Challa rarely gave the country or its inhabitants a moment's thought. To say he had been indifferent to them would be putting a mild spin on their relationship.

Niganda, to be sure, was no competitor—economic, political, or social—of Wakanda. No, Niganda was like so many other countries of the African continent, too busy wrestling with internal strife, economic woes, and political instability to be concerned with nation building or fostering mutually beneficial international relations.

And while Wakanda, up till a few short years ago, didn't fall into the "typical" or rather stereotypical, indebted, unsafe, unproductive, and mismanaged African country category, it was now depicted as such by the international community thanks—in large part— to Doom.

But T'Challa wasn't foolish or arrogant enough to place the entire blame of his nation's current predicament at Doom's steel-plated feet. No, Wakanda's internal dissension made them vulnerable and ripe for attack by the manipulative brilliance of Victor von Doom—the Desturi a perfectly naïve and controllable tool.

T'Challa crouched, crawling on his stomach, the sand a perfect sound dampener, not that King T'Challa, former Black Panther, would ever be so sloppy as to give away his position. Shuri moved just as deftly thirty paces in front of him, her slim, but muscular female form like a Black Mamba slithering through the sandy surf.

But all the stealth tactics were for naught, the tiny beach was abandoned, or rather, closed for environmental waste removal. Even if the report he and Shuri received, while en route to Niganda, hadn't alerted him to the eighteen-month project, the stench in the air would've. While it seemed like Niganda's government had done an admirable job removing waste from the sand, the stench wafting with a nauseating green haze off the river was another depth of environmental pollution entirely.

Satisfied no one was lurking in the shadows of the wide-open beach, T'Challa stood, signaling for his sister to do the same, thick brown grains of worthless sand sticking to their vibranium-weaved Black Panther habits.

Shuri removed her mask, her beautiful cinnamon face free of sweat, in spite of the relatively warm winter night. She still kept her hair cut in a short style that brought attention to her lovely oval face and bright, determined eyes. T'Challa was proud of his younger sister. She had grown into a capable woman. And while she still had much more maturing to do, their father would be proud, too. And she had helped save his marriage, offering him a buoy in the rough seas of life. To which, T'Challa would be eternally grateful.

And here they were again, side-by-side, poised to do all to save their family, their future. Not so very different from when the Desturi and Doom threatened their way of life, their very existence. They didn't stand for it then, and they damn sure wouldn't stand for it now.

"I don't see anything, and definitely nothing that looks like a portal," Shuri said. She spoke matter-of-factly, but the statement crackled with an undertone of frustration. He knew the feeling.

"I didn't think the witch would make it easy for us to locate the portal. I'm sure she deliberately picked this spot. The beach is relatively isolated. No one except government workers even bother to venture this far south. And since the money for the clean-up and restoration project seems to have dried up, there really is no reason for anyone to be mulling around. A perfect place, but one can never be too cautious, especially when they're conjuring an evil spirit."

"Evil spirit, T'Challa?"

He shrugged, and then moved closer to the water, the hideous foul smell increasing with each step. Even if it wasn't dark out, T'Challa knew the river would look the same—dark, dank, and grimy. T'Challa didn't even want to guess what was in that water, certainly not fish, for what living creature could possibly survive such a toxic mix.

"Do you think someone's been dumping stuff in there?" Shuri pointed one gloved finger at the layers of moving, bubbling slime making its way up the river.

"Probably, and it'll take more than an environmental grant to get and keep the beach and river clean."

Shuri nodded, stepping away from the muddy shore right before a pocket of slime found a new home on her jet black boots.

T'Challa raised his head, turning it slowly to the right, then left. "Do you smell that?"

Shuri imitated her brother's movement, also scenting the air. "It's faint."

"Very, but I think we can manage."

They both turned, facing away from the murky water, following the vague scent, moving parallel to each other, silent in their pursuit.

T'Challa breathed slowly through his mask, calming his nerves, the tightening in his stomach growing with each whispered step, the scent of sulfur thickening the air.

He raised a closed fist and Shuri stopped. T'Challa knew she saw it, too, a small house at the end of the dusty trail. It was one of many homes outlining the exit to the beach. Perhaps ten or five years ago, they would've been prime real estate, beachfront property practically selling themselves. Yet, in this economy, five or ten years is like a lifetime ago, especially when the expected curb appeal is nothing more than an old, stale sand and a frothy, putrid river.

And T'Challa was fairly sure that was why only one of the twelve homes on the quiet block wasn't boarded up with a For Sale sign on the depressed lawn. Oh, the home and the lawn were depressed for sure, but there was life in that house, the only one with a flicker of light coming from a second-floor window.

Shuri gave T'Challa a signal that let him know she was going to circle around back, letting him take point through the front door. A minute later, Shuri had vanished, in search of her own way into the house. T'Challa, on the other hand, crept along the side of the house, listening for movement. He heard none. But there was a solitary heartbeat from the upper level, presumably in the same room where he'd seen the light.

Cautiously, T'Challa used the claws from his suit to break the latch on a side window that was too covered in layers of filth for him to see inside clearly. Trusting his senses, he lifted the window, sliding it up. Slipping inside, T'Challa gracefully lowered himself to the floor, keeping one hand on the window. Once secure within; T'Challa lowered the window as softly as it was raised.

He looked around. And as he thought, the room was awash in dreary blackness. The space, which T'Challa assumed by the size and shape was a living room, was sparsely furnished and as unkempt as the beach. A not-so-gently used sofa, one chipped wooden end table, onto which a lamp and its askew shade rested, rounded out the drab, grim décor. Whoever the resident, he or she had no more care about the upkeep of the house than the Nigandan government, who did nothing to prevent the slow decay of their nation's largest body of water and the only beach of which its people could boast.

While he and Shuri had a lot to atone for, the land of T'Challa's forefathers and foremothers were never relegated to second-class citizenship, national funds diverted to line the pockets of greedy, contemptuous politicians instead of being directed to programs, policies, and services that would enhance not detract from the people, and the land that supported them all.

T'Challa hid in the shadows and watched as a tall, thin form entered the small, dismal space. Shuri. If she had sought him out, it meant that she'd searched whatever other rooms existed on the ground level, finding nothing of import. That left the second floor.

He moved stridently toward his sister. And as silent as they'd both entered the still home, they made their way effortlessly up the stairs. Thirteen wood bare steps later and they were at the top of the stairs, a narrowly dissecting hallway to their right and left. The light, however, that T'Challa had seen from the beach was coming from the far room to the left. Slowly, they parted company, Shuri taking the right hallway, T'Challa the left.

The door to the room with the light was ajar, but not enough for T'Challa to see inside. The heart rate he'd heard earlier, however, wasn't coming from within. No, it was coming from the direction in which Shuri had gone. And while his initial thought was to seek the source, there was something about the room that loomed before T'Challa that pulled him in like a moth to a bright, burning flame.

The door's hinges creaked when he used his gloved hand to push it fully open. A dim tlight flickered—a butterfly fiber optic nightlight placed carefully on a dust-free drawer.

The room entranced T'Challa, it's hypnotizing blues and pinks reminding him of the twins' nursery at home, the one he and his wife painted and decorated themselves. T'Challa knew the person who had crafted the room in which he stood, had taken the same loving care in the selection of each precious item and he and Ororo had when they sat, for hours, thumbing through a children's catalogue. He could feel the warmth, the love emanating from the spotless cribs, changing table, and neatly folded bibs and onesies, a stark contrast from the rest of the house.

Yes, there was the essence of love in this room, the scent heavy and obvious. But there were more intense aromas that nearly overpowered the first—anger, malevolence, hatred. And mixed within the extremes, T'Challa detected the faintest embers of loneliness.

And before he could decipher the new scent that had suddenly appeared, the door slammed closed behind him. T'Challa spun, raising his arms and stiffening his legs in a defensive posture. He could see nothing, but that wasn't the same as saying he was in the room alone. He wasn't. The unmistakable chill of death scratched over his spine, the smell of sulfur choking in its brutal strength.

Grateful he hadn't removed his mask and that Shuri had replaced hers before entering the house, T'Challa found small comfort that the sulfur would take longer to infiltrate their lungs. Assuming, of course, that was the only poison in the room, and that Shuri was being assaulted by the same toxin.

Senses on high alert, T'Challa tracked his unseen foe, sight and hearing not as valuable as they would be under normal circumstances. But there were other senses, and other ways of conceptualizing them, such as the sense of touch. Yes, T'Challa could _feel_ the presence with his soul as opposed to his hands. But it was the sense of smell that told him that there was a demon in the room with him. The question was, what kind of demon had the witch unleashed on him?

There were other questions, of course, that centered around Shuri and her safety. But she was tough, a barely contained viper with the temper and ability of a thousand Wakandan warriors. If whatever was on the other end of the hallway could level his sister, it would have to be a bad son-of-a-bitch.

T'Challa whirled to the right, his skin tingling with awareness. But it wasn't enough, a blast of energy hit and lifted him off the floor, sending T'Challa against the back wall. He lessened the impact the best he could, using his arms and legs to break his fall, the vibranium armor absorbing much of the damage from the blast.

And damage it was, a sizzling hole the size of a large hand burned perfectly into the center of T'Challa's chest.

He was on his feet again, leery eyes traveling the room, the nightlight illuminating the corners of the room but nothing more. The stench of sulfur coated the air—heavy and fog thick.

"I knew you would come."

T'Challa backed into the wall near the window, his elbow breaking the glass just as another energy blast rocked him against the two cribs. This time, he didn't have time to break his fall, the voice distracting him, his large frame destroying the furniture.

Five seconds later and he was back on his feet, the late night breeze refreshing—even the grotesque polluted beach air a respite from the demonic sulfurous smell assailing his burning lungs.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Knowing the broken window led to freedom, T'Challa steered clear of it. Also knowing the demon he couldn't see was somewhere between him and it.

"You think brute force alone will save you," the female voice spat, her biting contempt for him evident with the slow enunciation of each word. She sounded like a mad woman to T'Challa, a woman who had lost touch with reality, and was a danger. Not to herself though, but to others, to him, to Ororo, to his babies.

T'Challa moved lanquidly until he reached the door. Reaching blindly behind him, he wiggled the knob. It was locked; he didn't expect otherwise, but it would be stupid not to try. Sometimes the answer is the most obvious one, not his time, however.

"You left her alone. How arrogant you are to have done so. You think the threat to your mutant wife can be solved so easily? You think your _kingly_ presence in Niganda will sway me from my task, from the revenge due me?"

Revenge? Of course, it was always about revenge. Was there no originality left in this decadent world? Or was he and Ororo to be subject to every lunatic whose paths they've crossed and had taken it as some reprehensible slight. If revenge was vibranium, the planet would be overflowing with the rare metal—drowning in it in fact.

"Tell me how I have aggrieved you," T'Challa said, his tone deliberately respectful, non-threatening. "Perhaps there is a way I can make amends. It seems I am in a constant state of amend-making."

T'Challa heard something that sounded like psychotic laughter, and he tried the door again. This time, he discreetly extended his claws, the frail wood breaking in his hand. Success.

Two whips across his face, jolting him forward and to the floor. Two more whips, landing firmly against his ribs, forcing a frantic roll in defense, his side aching, reeling from the invisible booted attack.

Breathing heavily, T'Challa stood once more, forcing his heart to a calmer pace. The last thing he needed was to increase the rate at which he inhaled the fumes.

"For what you have done, no amends is possible. You have taken from me, and now I will take from you. Everything. Everything you love. Everything you fight for. I will take it all. But first—''

The demon was upon him then, invisible hands clutching his neck, lifting T'Challa until his toes had to stretch to reach the floor. T'Challa struck out at the form that held him, strong, vicious blows connecting. But the demon didn't let go, it didn't even alter its body an inch. T'Challa twisted and kicked, the grip around his neck tightening, making breathing as difficult as slurping a cake through a straw.

Raising his knees as high as he could bring them, T'Challa pushed out, the knives from his boots slicing the air, but connecting with something tangible. The hands around his neck wavered. It was no more than a few seconds of relief, but it would have to do.

T'Challa kicked out again, harder this time, aiming twenty inches higher, hoping for a mid-section wound. Goal. The hands loosened even more, T'Challa clawing into them, drilling his gloved hand as deeply as he could go, ripping and pulling with the force of a man fighting for his family.

The demon dropped him, sulfur erupting from a screaming mouth T'Challa couldn't see. T'Challa stumbled away, wanting to cover his ears with his hands, the high-pitched melodramatic exclamation incongruous with the tenacity in the demon's death drip.

Unseeing, but following the sound of wailing, T'Challa lunged forward, fists and feet punching and kicking in rapid succession, landing and missing in equal measure. Right block, forward kick. Side lunge, uppercut. High-rise block, axe kick.

Swivel. Duck. Attack.

Jump. Sidestep. Attack.

Punch. Crouch. Slice.

"Stop it! You will not deny me!"

And it stopped, the victory T'Challa tasted in his bloodied mouth, the Black Panther in him unwilling to retreat from the downed antelope. It all stopped, including him. He couldn't move. Not. One. Single. Inch.

The witch's spell smelled worse than the demon stench and the foul river water combined. And it was slowly slithering up his body, gnawing away at his armor, a piranha taking its time, knowing its prey could do nothing to stop the torturous biting into flesh.

T'Challa bit back the roar of agony that squeezed at his insides, begging to release its pain through one scream. Just one. Only one.

No. T'Challa refused, the ever-moving dagger of teeth drilling laser holes into ankle, knee, thigh, hip, and stomach. Tiny mouths gorged themselves on hard muscles, yet soft willing flesh.

"I will take everything from you, like you took from me. Then you will die. Lilith will come and claim you, and then she will claim the twins for me. They will be _my children_, live here with me as their mother."

Another psychotic laugh. And another. And another, the churning of the repugnant sound dizzying and repulsive. And then T'Challa was falling, the ghastly rows of teeth feasting on his body melting away. The witch's satisfied squeal faint. "See. Know. Feel. Hurt. Your worse nightmares. Welcome to my web."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	8. Chapter 8: Mind Games

**Chapter 8: Mind Games**

**Part 1**

Shuri sucked in a deep breath before rolling onto her back. Eyes closed, she took a quick inventory of her body, and then her surroundings. The brutal drilling sensation in her head and chest no longer hurt, although she could still feel the residual tingling from the demon's attempt to possess her body.

She'd sensed it the moment she entered the bedroom. The smell of sulfur met Shuri a second after the bedroom door slammed behind her. It was a trap; Shuri knew this going in. But the trap began long before she and T'Challa had set one booted foot on Nigandan soil. The resident of this house—the witch—wanted them here, in her personal demonic lair.

And so they came, because they had no other choice but to allow the witch to play out her little game of revenge. For now, Shuri and T'Challa were willing to be the "unsuspecting" mice to the witch's bloated cat.

But what Shuri hadn't factored in was the witch's use of demons. For anyone, even a witch, to enlist the aid of demons was seriously bad mental reasoning. No matter how well crafted the terms of engagement, demons always had a way of manipulating the contract or the situation in such a way that the human foolish or arrogant enough to call him to this realm paid the greatest possible price—normally his or her soul.

As expected, the witch was indeed in the room Shuri entered. The darkened space with its hardwood flooring, two grimy windows, and a solitary double bed pushed off to the corner of the room were quickly catalogued with a cursory scan.

But it was the thin framed woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, under one of the windows that caught Shuri's Black Panther attention. The woman wore a dark cloak that covered her entire body except for long, thin fingers holding a book. And while Shuri couldn't see her lips, she knew the woman was speaking, or rather casting a spell.

Shuri knew virtually nothing of witches or magic, Zawavari one of the few Wakandans who still practiced the ancient craft. No, Wakandans, in spite of their respect for the old ways, were very much a modern people in their thinking. In the modern, technology driven Wakanda, there was no place for those whose beliefs strayed too far from the omnipotence of the Panther God.

Surprisingly, many Wakandans were very much like Americans and Europeans when it came to magic. They didn't like or trust it, and the sentiment was doubly so for those who wielded it. It all boiled down to fear. Magic was one of those intangible sources of power that was damnably difficult to control or defeat. And it was in this that people's aversion to the art and its wielders truly ran.

And right now, Shuri wasn't feeling particularly magnanimous toward witchcraft either. In fact, she hated using herself as bait to get closer to the witch who'd cursed her brother. But they had to know what they were up against, and willingly walking into a spider's web was the quickest way of ascertaining the witch's strength. Besides, Shuri and T'Challa weren't exactly helpless lambs who stumbled upon a slaughterhouse.

Finally, Shuri opened her eyes, sensing nothing around her. Shaking off the bone-chilling image of the black smoked demon swirling around the hunched form of the witch, its body pulsing like a hummingbird, Shuri slowly stood.

The muscles in Shuri's legs and back popped when she stood, as if she'd been shoved into a 5 x 5 box and thrown overboard, left to drift on rough seas for days, if not weeks.

_What in the hell did that freaky Friday witch do to me? I swear I'm going to—_

Shuri halted, a flicker of white light that wasn't there before echoed softly—a beacon in the dim nothingness. And it was nothing. No light. No sound. No smell. And the only thing Shuri could taste was the stale cinnamon gum she liked to chew to settle her nerves before battle.

The light twenty—perhaps thirty—feet away began to glow. Shuri moved backward, hitting something solid. She reached behind her, confirming that what she'd collided with was indeed thick. Shuri moved to her right, keeping her eyes on the ever-growing light, while running her hand over the barricade. She'd walked as far as she was willing to go without getting closer to the light than she deemed safe. The barricade or wall seemed to be a large circle with Shuri and the massive light as its only prisoners.

But that wasn't entirely true, the light was no prisoner and it now found a home on the wall. And with the explosion of light that followed, Shuri's entire surrounding was suddenly shrouded in vibrant colors—white, blue, gold, and green.

Eyes adjusting to the sudden—though not unwelcome—shift in illumination, the lenses of her mask prevented her eyes from totally dilating at the overwhelming power of the light.

Shuri made a three hundred and ninety degree turn, correcting her initial analysis of her holding cell. The only thing she could compare her surroundings to was a planetarium. She stood in a dome, above and around her screens of light floating, swirling, and forming colors she didn't have names for.

Then images began to appear, and the nothingness was now something—Wakanda. But not the Wakanda she'd ever seen. Her beloved country was a shell of its former glory—burned and abandoned homes, cracked and broken roads, shriveled and dry crops, overflowing and unkempt cemeteries.

Scene after scene of destruction blazed before Shuri followed by soul-drenched wails of pain. Caustic voices dripped from the ceiling, dropping around Shuri—acid rain to her ears, her heart.

"You did this to us."

"Princess Regent? You're nothing but a spoiled brat with illusions of grandeur."

"You're nothing compared to your father, your brother."

"Dishonor. Wretched girl, you dishonor the Panther God."

"Brute."

"Slut."

"Imposter."

The vile tongues wagged, spewing forth, raining their viciousness down on Shuri's shoulders. And she wanted to yell. Wanted to tell them to shut the hell up, to defend herself. It wasn't real. It simply wasn't real and she refused to give in, refused to be emotionally manipulated. Yeah, when she got out of this science center visit from hell, Shuri and the witch were going to have a nice little tete-a- tete with fist and teeth—Shuri's fist, the witch's teeth.

The images contorted, black holes of space appearing, giving the feel of impending doom, the dome seeming to close in on Shuri.

And then she saw it, the visual a pleasant memory—her brother's wedding. The warm day was perfect for a spring wedding, the binding of souls and hearts. Friends and families from near and far came to celebrate the nuptials, give their well wishes and blessings. If the witch hoped to make Shuri crack, she would have to up the ante, and this memory wasn't even close.

And there Shuri was, standing in the background, watching her brother pledge his commitment to a woman he'd met as a boy.

Another scene. This one later that same day, Shuri in her bedroom, looking out over the milling guests below, the ones who weren't quite ready for the night to end. And off to her right, she watched as T'Challa and Ororo slipped away from the partygoers, their reception, seeking privacy. A kiss behind a column followed, then another, and another until one flowed sensually into the next.

And now she watched herself watch T'Challa and his bride, claiming each other with lips and hands, unable to keep from touching each other even when their friends were only a few feet away, a white column insufficient to shield their amorous behavior from roaming eyes, especially those who had an aerial view, like Shuri did on her perch on her balcony.

Shuri didn't remember that, didn't recall invading their privacy. Embarrassment flooded her, though no one was here to see what she'd done. It was her memory, one the witch obviously plucked from some repressed corner of her mind. And as Shuri viewed her younger self through more mature eyes, she felt shame wash over her.

And then the bitterly chiding voices came again.

"Jealous wench."

"You're going to die alone. No man wants a barbaric harlot like you."

"Ororo had nothing growing up, while you had every luxury. But who's the better woman, the stronger, more capable queen?"

"You wanted to bring Ororo low. You were the one who convinced T'Challa to stay silent about Doom's plot. You were the one who lied to Ororo. You wanted her to suffer."

"I didn't."

"You wanted her to hurt, to suffer, to feel the pain you felt from having an outsider come in and receive the respect from your countrymen you so desperately coveted."

"Lies. You know nothing of me, witch. Your prying can only show you my memories, which is pointless. Only my heart can truly decipher the meaning of the images you continue to draw from me."

"She's a beautiful, powerful mutant who has more control than you'll ever know. Ororo is everything you aren't. Everything you wish to be."

"She's my sister and I love her. You know nothing of our relationship." It was a frustrated yell. A quick response borne of years of self-doubt that had nothing to do with Ororo but everything to do with a girl who never knew her father but always felt the judging eyes of her kinspeople, waiting for her to fuck up or fly. Shuri had done both.

Shuri knew she shouldn't allow the witch to hold court, but she'd be damned if she just listened to such blatant filth. Sometimes silence could be interpreted as consent, as defeat. Shuri refused to admit to either.

A pregnant and smiling Ororo appeared on a screen, each one showing a development in her pregnancy. Happy faces, her own among them, surrounded Shuri, Wakandans holding family and faith above all.

"Ororo is the queen and she will give Wakanda the first prince and princess. Not you, but an outsider."

"Jealous." The word flashed over the dome, a hissing snake circling her feet, slithering up her legs, reaching her ear and sliding inside. That shouldn't have been possible with the mask she wore, but the scaly creature managed it all the same.

"Jealous," the snake hissed again, the assertion spreading like a virus through every brain cell. "JEALOUS."

"You're wrong," Shuri snapped, violently shaking her head, trying to force the invader out.

"Jealous."

The word bounced around in her head, a boomerang with no outlet, colliding against the image Shuri had of herself, the one that was comfortable and confident in her own skin, not envious of a woman who'd done nothing but befriend her.

She wasn't jealous of Ororo or T'Challa. She loved them both, hated when they separated. Hell, she was the one who went to New York to convince T'Challa to come home, to make amends with his wife.

And as if in response to her inner monologue, the hiss came again, the pain dropping Shuri to her knees.

"If you could handle being Black Panther and Head of State, you would have never gone to Hell's Kitchen. You couldn't cut it, make it work on your own. You needed help."

"Get out of my head!"

"Selfish little girl. You're a user."

"Leave me alone."

"Selfish. Selfish. SELFISH."

Shuri grinded her teeth, the snake laying eggs in her head, the babies crawling forth from the cracked eggs, slithering deeper into her psyche, drilling into her brain.

And the images continued, but she no longer looked, no longer wanted to see, have her deepest dreams, most shameful thoughts wrenched from her body and contorted into something vile, dirty.

"You're weak," the voice said, the sound pushing against her body, causing Shuri to fall back in to the same position she was in when this whole disturbing horror movie began.

Shuri lie on her back, eyes closed, hands holding her head, body tense with unbidden stress. How in the hell had she come to this? How had she managed to let the witch maneuver her emotions in such a debilitating way?

Dammit, she was better than this. Ororo and the twins were counting on Shuri, and she'd be damned if she succumbed to obvious mental manipulation.

But dear god, it was an excellent weapon, one she was never trained to go up against.

_Fuck, I really hate magic._

The pain increased, the fangs of the snakes biting repeatedly, forcing a scream from Shuri.

And then she felt a presence. The scent of sulfur burned her nose and she opened her eyes.

And before Shuri could muster a defense, a weight fell on her, arms came up to her wrists, pinning them above her head, and heavy masculine knees speared her thighs to the ground. She was trapped by a foul smelling demon. Correction, she was trapped by a foul smelling _naked_ demon whose penis was as obvious as it was hard.

_Oh, hell no._

The heat and stench of his words roughly caressed Shuri's cheek. "The witch promised me you. I don't know what you're wearing that prevented me from possessing you earlier, but here, in this place, I can have you in another way."

The demon grinded himself against Shuri, her vibranium suit the only thing between them and his sadistic intent.

"In this realm, I can take you—over and over. Strong women like you," he said, licking her cheek and forehead, Shuri infinitely grateful for the covering, "need to be made to know that there is always someone stronger. You think yourself invincible." The demon shoved himself against her again, widening Shuri's legs for his invasion.

"You think I'll let you rape me, you worthless piece of demon shit?" If she could've, Shuri would've literally spat in his face. Her words would have to do. "My suit prevented you from forcing your inconsequential spirit into my body, now you think to force your toddler-sized dick into me?" Shuri head-butted the demon, scoring his nose, a piercing scream of anger shaking the domed room.

"You disgusting human bitch." The demon's hands gripped her wrists tighter, the strength of them enough to break bone. His face looked less human now, bald head and skin so pale, so white that his presence shimmered in the darkness. And black eyes with specks of green squinted at Shuri, the colors in contrast to his albino form.

"I'm going to have fun with you." The tongue that appeared like a long, thick Brillo pad came out again, licking over the mask where her mouth was. "I'm going to—''

Shuri head-butted the demon again. Once. Twice. Three times. The strikes came in quick secession, the beast yelling his frustration and pain, lifting his head and chest. It wasn't much but . . .

She twisted, wiggled her right leg out from under the demon, and turned slightly. Claws from the top of her boot were jammed into the demon's shin, Shuri raking it up his leg as far as she could go.

Another scream and the demon rose off her even higher, his fist balled and leveled to strike. Strike he did, landing a vicious blow to her midsection, the vibranium absorbing most of the punch, it still hurt like hell, but it was worth it.

Shuri's left arm was now free, as were the retractable claws. Wasting no time, Shuri slashed four vibranium knives across her opponent's face, digging them in deep and unrepentantly.

He howled and scrambled back. Shuri's now freed right hand found the demon's exposed side, claws breaking skin as it found an entrance into his body. Another wolf howl, the anger from the demon bleeding into the tight cell the witch created for them both.

Shuri managed to regain her footing, standing, kicking the demon in the face with the tip of her boots, claws extended, landing in the hellspawn's throat.

Winded yet relieved, Shuri looked at the downed demon. "You'll never 'take me,' bastard."

"I will," he gasped, smiling, the gashes from the claw wounds already closing, knitting themselves together as if she'd done nothing more than give him a passion mark.

Yet Shuri wasn't one to be easily intimidated. "Yeah, you and what army, asshole?"

And yeah, that was too much bravado, even for her. Twelve, no twenty matching albino demons with black-green eyes stepped forward, the stench of sulfur suffocating, bodies foul and naked, ready for battle—_and more_.

**Part 2**

T'Challa knew going into this that he would have to battle magic. Thankfully, he'd learned his lesson well after being possessed by the Shadow King, altering the composition of his vibranium suits in the months that followed. Zawavari, the witchdoctor, helped him, lending his knowledge of other dimensions and voodoo to the scientific cause.

The suit he wore was the only thing that prevented the demon from taking him over, possessing his body, forcing T'Challa to do its evil bidding.

No, the witch didn't know that little but vitally important fact about he and Shuri's habits when she conjured the demon to her side. T'Challa wondered what she promised the demon, for they did nothing out of the goodness of their hearts. Not that demons had hearts, of course.

T'Challa was tired of walking. Not fatigued but tired of moving from one locale to another. Once he landed in the un-nameable dimension, he walked from downtown Manhattan, to the Wakandan Embassy in San Francisco, to Hell's Kitchen, to the Sahara Desert.

Now he stood outside the gates of his palace home, two fifty feet high statues of the Black Panther flanking the entrance. It was a humbling sight to behold, even though T'Challa knew it to be nothing more than an illusion created by the witch.

In fact, T'Challa concluded that the entire dimension, if it could be called such, was nothing but an elaborate spell meant to fool the senses of the trapped mind. Yes, T'Challa knew that as well. His body, the one attacked by the demon, was more than likely lying on the floor in the bedroom.

His mind, maybe even his spirit, was what had been transported to this nether region—a maze inside a spider's web.

The palace gate creaked open, the heavy steel doors with the shield of Wakanda emblazoned on them, pushed forward, aided by invisible hands.

Cautiously, T'Challa walked through the double doors, peering to his right and left as he entered. The stoned garden was vacant, overgrown grass and weeds having claimed the place, twining around benches, walls, and statues.

He walked farther inside, the invisible hands pulling the doors closed behind him, making T'Challa feel both at home and in danger. Black Panther's didn't have a "Spidey sense," but they did have a sixth sense. And T'Challa knew that the witch was finally ready to start her game.

And out they came, one behind the other. Two children, a boy and a girl. They walked toward him, both unabashedly naked the way children that age tended to be. Two or three, T'Challa guessed.

Their faces were round, stomachs chubby, eyes boring into his own. But it was the girl who made T'Challa take several steps back, sandy white hair poured from her tiny head, falling onto slender shoulders. And then there were the eyes, aqua blue and exquisite.

_Ororo's eyes._

T'Challa turned back to the boy, brown eyes meeting brown eyes. His son. They were his unborn children—T'Chaka and N'Dare—the ones he and Ororo saw in the future. But not like this, they'd met their teenage children, not the toddlers standing before him now, snarling at him.

And they were snarling, angelic baby faces misaligned in a grotesque mask no child should ever wear. And in spite of the demonic energy wafting from their petite bodies, some part of T'Challa still wanted to embrace them, touch their fine baby hair.

But common sense was stronger that sentimentality, T'Challa kept his distance from the ever encroaching twosome.

Chubby arms rose, and twenty perfect fingers wiggled, reaching for him.

"Baba, you've come for us."

"You're here, Baba, I told Chaka you would come."

Panther God help him, their voices were gentle, soft, and too perfect, enunciation exceeding that of any toddler he'd ever met. Small wonders. Such stretches of reality helped T'Challa keep this in perspective. They weren't his children. They were nothing but cruel replicas meant to torture.

They moved closer, the hideous frowns incongruent with their sweet pleas. T'Challa stepped around a statue of Bashenga, the first king of a united Wakanda. He felt foolish for running from two children, but T'Challa knew otherwise. Those things in front of him were bastardized versions of the children Ororo would soon give birth to. And that made T'Challa even angrier. How dare the witch?

"You promised, Baba. You promised to take care of us. To always be there for us."

"He lied," the little girl said, her torturous mask slipping, revealing the sweet face of a young Ororo. He wished the witch hadn't done that, made her look the way he envisioned his daughter would.

"It wasn't a lie," he found himself quickly defending, knowing better but unable to resist those big blue searching eyes.

"It was a lie." She shook her head, a dusting of hair falling across one eye, disbelief in the other. "Chaka told me but I didn't believe him. Why, Baba, why?"

Those chubby perfect brown fingers reached for him again, T'Challa pulled into an emotional vortex.

Then his "son" spoke, his mask on the ground, leaving behind an image that reminded T'Challa of the one his father kept in a gold frame on his office desk, so long ago. God, how long had it been since he was that age?

"Mama waited for you, but you were too late," the child said, his infectious smile not matching his hardened eyes. "She waited and waited and waited."

"But you never came," the girl said, her delicate arms still extended.

The boy's eyes hardened even more, brown giving way to black. "She trusted you, gave you another chance. And what did you do with that trust, her faith?"

"He spat on it," the girl finished again, completing her brother's thoughts.

"I'm trying to get back to her, to you all. Her faith in me isn't misplaced. Ororo knows she can trust me, that I'll always be there for her."

T'Challa knew he had to get away from the mini demons. The longer he listened to them, the deeper they drew him in to their insanity. And it was insane. They were here, wherever here was, and they weren't his children. They were nothing to T'Challa, but damn how simply being around them made his heart lurch with pride, with joy at what he and Ororo created—would create.

"You left us," they said in unison, their voices merging into one accusatory screech. "You left Mama and Lilith took control."

"Who's Lilith?"

"Lilith came for us," they said, each one taking a position on one of T'Challa's sides. He saw they were flanking him, but he couldn't manage to care, to move, to defend himself from the attack he felt coming.

"She wanted us, and Mama could do nothing to stop her. You weren't there for us, and we—''

And right before him, their youthful features started to wither, their flawless skin darkening and falling into empty sockets. Skin gave way to bones, eyes sloping forward, dripping, and melting, slimy egg whites stinking and obscene.

"You did this to us," they said between deteriorating mouths, tongues curling, jaws hanging on by thin membranes and muscles. But they, too, were withering away like the dried up sand on the Niganda Beach, being washed back into the noxious river.

The two set of baby arms that were reaching for T'Challa started to crumble like burning paper under a flame. They rolled up, an ancient parchment set to blaze, falling like ash at the shoulders. Yet those toxic tongues refused to die, to free T'Challa from the horror of seeing the likeness of his children dying before him.

"Mama should have never taken you back, never married you. You're no king, no Black Panther, no husband, no father. You're nothing. You are the man with fear."

The last sentence was a drawl, the flapping tongues now on the ground, surrounded by squishy, steaming unrecognizable limbs and organs.

And still they taunted him. And taunted. And taunted.

And with legs stronger than his stomach, T'Challa ran from the morbid scene of burnt flesh and witch psychotic mind games.

Once inside the palace, T'Challa ran two steps at a time up the stairs. The winding marble staircase led to a long hallway. This, too, the witch had gotten right, and T'Challa wondered if she was pulling the images from his mind, or if she had actually spent time in the palace, in Wakanda.

But there was no more room for pondering, he needed to find a way out of this maze, and T'Challa had a feeling that the source of his suffering was in the room looming before him—he and Ororo's bedchamber.

The door was ajar, and T'Challa slipped inside, senses on high alert. Once inside, he glanced around the outer chamber. The size, shape, and coloring were all wrong, as were the furniture, paintings, and area rug. This wasn't his room, but some very bad facsimile.

_So the witch isn't in my mind, nor has she been in my personal chamber. But she has been to Wakanda. Too many other details were correct for her to have only seen the place on television or the Internet. In spite of what happened with Doom, Wakandan security never allows photos to be taken of the royal palace, even during tourist visits by teachers and their charges._

Pleased that the witch wasn't a mind reader, T'Challa confidently opened the door to the main bedroom and stopped. The four-poster mahogany bed was all wrong, but not as wrong as the two entwined bodies, sweating and moaning.

"Yes, yes."

"Oh, god, 'Ro, you feel so damn good. So good, I could make love to you forever; make you forget about that panther loser you married."

"Don't mention him, not now, not ever—oh, yes, right there, Logan, right there."

And in that moment, the seconds that ticked between reality and insanity, T'Challa was lost in the in between, his body moving of its own volition.

He approached the bed, the figures sliding against each other, the sound of skin smacking against skin reverberated in T'Challa's brain. The same brain that told him what he was witnessing wasn't real, the one that whispered that Logan and Ororo were only ever friends. The same brain that screamed at him that even if Logan wanted to be more than Ororo's friend, she would never break her vow of fidelity. Not with Logan or Scott, or any other man the tabloids speculated was wooing her once his stay in Hell's Kitchen became public knowledge. All the world, including his mother, wanted to know if the separation was permanent, if his leaving Wakanda and taking on the Mr. Okonkwo persona was the beginning of the end of the "marriage of the century."

And as wise as T'Challa was, his level of genius was trumped by the raging bull of his heart. The same heart shattered when T'Challa saw his beloved wife making love to another man. The very heart that now screamed _mine_ and _kill_.

Without thinking, T'Challa leapt, claws extended, Logan's pale back and bare ass exposed. And then those panther claws were sinking into flesh, a sound of tearing and popping followed, familiar screams batting at his subconscious.

Screams? Ororo? Ororo's screams.

Wolverine stuck T'Challa with his own claws but he didn't feel them, no, the bloody sight before T'Challa dulled the pain of the attack.

T'Challa's deadly claws were deeply imbedded in the stomach of his wife—his pregnant wife? her nine month belly completely covering most of his hand.

"What have you done?" Logan wailed, stabbing a motionless T'Challa again and again.

Still, he couldn't take his eyes off her, tears clouding Ororo's fading blue eyes, the sound of Logan in the background yelling "I heard you and I moved to defend myself. I can't believe you stabbed your wife, your own children. What kind of monster are you?"

_Not a monster. A mistake. This isn't real_, T'Challa told himself, blood oozing from the puncture wounds he made, running down Ororo's sides, soaking the impure sheets.

"This isn't real. This isn't real. Oh, god, please don't let this be real," T'Challa cried, the pain of his dying, bleeding wife desensitizing him to Logan's curses and fists.

Ororo gurgled, blood spilling from her mouth.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. I didn't see him move. I would never harm you. Never harm you."

T'Challa leaned in, desperately pleading, unable to stop the blizzard of emotions taking control of him. He had to tell her, let her know before it was too late.

It was already too late however, Ororo's roughened bloody cough preceding the closing of her eyes, and a whispered, "I hate you."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	9. Chapter 9: Ororo's Nightmares

**Chapter 9: Ororo's Nightmares**

_Remember._

Ororo didn't want to remember, she was tired of this game. Lilith's game. But it wasn't a game at all. It was a very shrewd manipulation of Ororo's mind, her memories, her heart, by a crazed spirit.

_Remember._

Ororo resisted, she always resisted, and each time she lost the battle of wills. How long had it been since she'd slipped into this coma-like state? How many horrific memories of her time with T'Challa had Lilith forced from her? How many times were the words _He doesn't love or deserve you; kill him_, whispered in her mind? How many? Too damn many.

_Remember._

And she remembered. Again.

Ororo found T'Challa, back to her, sitting on a boulder on the outskirts of an Egyptian town they had been traveling through. And they were happy, or had been until T'Challa spotted a man from his past, the man T'Challa thought to be responsible for the murder of his father. And T'Challa had given chase, dropping Ororo's hand, ignoring her pleas, leaving her alone.

"T'Challa? It's me. Took all afternoon for me to find you. And I thought I could move fast. Don't worry, honey. Tomorrow we will search for him again and keep looking until we find him . . . Or maybe decide that wasn't him after all."

He looked so dejected, hurt, moving quickly away from Ororo when all she wanted to offer was comfort, friendship, understanding. The absence of a parent's love not lost on her.

"I've been a fool. I have responsibilities. And instead of fulfilling my commitments, I've been on vacation. Meanwhile the man who killed my father still walks the earth. I need to get my mind focused on the task at hand and to do that I can't afford any distractions."

"And that's all I am? A distraction?"

"Don't make this harder than it is, Ororo!"

"Hard? What do you know about hard? Spoiled little rich boy. Everybody hurts."

Those were the first tears she'd shed over him, storming away, a heartbroken girl. Not a woman, but most assuredly a girl.

_You were right then, Ororo. T'Challa was spoiled, favored by God. But you, well, God has never favored you, has he?_

Ororo's heard this before. Been compelled to replay the scene repeatedly, the one that plagued her for far too many years. The one that made her question her young, naïve decision to give her virginity to a boy she'd only known a short time, a boy she thought she'd love. But what did a thirteen-year-old know of romantic love? Had she been a fool? According to Lilith, she had been. But what did Lilith know?

"Life is never easy, Lilith, but blaming your God, my Bright Lady, or even the Panther God does no one any good."

_He left you alone, poor, wretched, and homeless. And he returned to luxury, a palace where his every need would be met, his teenage sexual appetite quenched by a willing innocent. He took advantage, claiming you when you were too young and inexperienced to know better._

"T'Challa did not force me!" The implication angered and sickened Ororo. She was right of mind. He would have stopped if that was what she'd wanted. It wasn't.

_But he was not pure himself, was he, Ororo? No, he'd already been with other girls, perhaps even women. Why lay with a virgin when he could have any female in his father's kingdom?_

Ororo had wondered the same.

_Show me._

"You've already seen," Ororo protested. "You've seen them all, every intimate moment, every kiss, every touch, every pleasurable moan." Ororo sighed. "Every tear I've ever shed over him."

_Yet you refuse me; deny our revenge._

"T'Challa's not Adam."

_No, he's worst, for he feigns kindness and love, gentleness and honesty. But he lies, he deceives, he takes, and gives nothing but a river of tears in return. Now show me. Remember the pleasure, the pain._

"Why is this happening to me? We walk all day and it is fine. Then at night . . . when we are alone . . . and you get too close to me . . ."

They are sitting under a tree. Ororo recalls that tree well, the one she'd burned after it was struck by lightning. Her lightning. His kiss, creating never before felt emotions in her, combined with the mutant powers that were only just beginning to truly take form. But Ororo didn't understand that then. No, she believed herself cursed, for why else would she survive a plane's explosion only to be left in the world all alone—no parents, no home, no sense of self.

"Focus, it comes from inside you," T'Challa said.

"Not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"You know how I feel about you. I don't know how you feel."

"This is how I feel about you."

And Ororo watched as a young, impossibly handsome T'Challa, moves slowly, giving her young, and yes, inexperienced self, a chance to turn away, to say no. But she didn't. She allowed the kiss and remembered exactly what she felt at that precise moment.

I focused, prayed, asked the Gods to not let desire embarrass me. Asked the winds to remain calm, befriend me, despite the storm that raged inside my body. What I felt inside I could not explain. I no longer felt like a child. Moved with my cravings, embraced that new part of me. Oh, how I tingled. I did not want it to end.

_But you were a child, Ororo, too young to know your mind._

"Have you been with many women?" Ororo asked of him, feeling inadequate.

"I am with experience. That bothers you?"

"So you have loved many women." For the young Ororo, sex was love and love was sex. She couldn't imagine giving her body to someone she didn't love. Now, however, she knew better. Sex very often had little to do with love.

"It's not how many women a man can love, but how well can a man love one woman." T'Challa's response was full of promise, Ororo's decision made when he'd looked at her as if she was his world.

_And you believed him._

She had; she did; she wanted to.

And, yes, looking back on it now, twenty years later, as an expectant mother, Ororo would not choose that fate for her daughter. And what felt like a declaration of love to her back then, now sounded like nothing more than a very good line perfected by a very experienced horny teenager on a lonely walkabout.

Ororo turned away from the image that followed. She knew it well, could still feel T'Challa's sure hands on her unmapped body, the temple she'd refused to barter with. The one she'd willingly sacrificed for some nebulous sense of womanhood, with a boy prince who's flute playing, courage, and intelligent mind made her feel beautiful, wanted, loved.

This started out as a strategy. Ororo needed to give T'Challa and Shuri as much time as she could, and distracting the spirit within seemed like a good idea. Lilith fed off misery the way flowers soaked up water. And right now she was feeding off Ororo's misery, twisting thoughts, memories, and emotions to create a bastardized version of she and T'Challa's relationship.

Sudan loomed before her, the sparkling white sand glistened off the guns of the slave raiders, the ones Ororo came to make pay for their crimes against the women and girls of the region—females like she'd used to be—weak, vulnerable, afraid.

"So, you found me," she'd said, T'Challa's imposing, unwanted figure standing uncomfortably close.

"You didn't make it hard. All I had to do was follow the path of fried slavers and newly made lakes in the middle of the desert."

"I used to do this all the time. You know, after you left me. I would wander the desert, dispensing justice. That's why they called me a goddess."

"I never left you. I had an obligation to fulfill. I killed my father's murderer, and now I am king."

T'Challa had said it with such pride. And looking back on it now, Ororo could see that the pride stemmed more from having avenged his father than claiming the throne as his own.

"Oh, I see. Now you can fit me into your busy schedule?

"Now I am the man you deserve."

"You fool," she wailed, long suppressed hurt giving way to anger. "Where were you when I needed you? You left me all alone, a child in love for the first time."

"I was a child, too. Children make mistakes."

And he was. In spite of his sexual experience, T'Challa was but a boy of sixteen, without a father's proper guidance. A boy forced to become a man too soon, having watched his father and mother killed before his very young eyes.

"I would have done anything for you! We could have had it all! It would have been perfect.!"

_But it wasn't perfect, was it, Ororo?"_ Lilith taunted, her voice scratching against Ororo's heart. Unions with such men never are. You knew better. _You saw the signs of his selfish pride, yet you forgave him, loved him, protected him. And now you're prepared to bear his children._

Yes, their children. That was what it was all about for Ororo. No matter the talk of revenge, no matter the corruption of her memories, this, all of it, was about her children. Ororo hadn't forgotten. She knew as much as Lilith wanted to slake her vengeance against God and Adam, by having Ororo kill T'Challa, she also wanted the twins. For them, and them alone, no emotional price was too high. There was still Plan B. This little trip down memory lane was just a diversion.

Lilith skipped the fight with the Arabian Knight, during which T'Challa pled his case for marriage, except for one scene, one statement, one memorable declaration.

"Yesterday's sorrows are nothing compared to tomorrow's joy. We have a lifetime of love ahead of us."

A harsh mocking laugh followed the unbidden memory.

_Have your marriage been more joy than sorrow, Ororo? Was T'Challa correct? Did he live up to that promise? Or did he say what was necessary to get his way, the same as he did when you were a child, separating you from you maidenhead?_

Ororo didn't answer, she was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Nothing she said would change Lilith's mind. There were countless memories the vile spirit could've pulled that would've countered the one's she preferred. But why paint an entire portrait when a partial one fit the bill?

Yet there was some truth in Lilith's vulgar analysis. Ororo had known much sorrow in her marriage, and while most couldn't be placed at the foot of her husband, some could. The ones that cut the deepest, hurt the most, definitely could.

"My love, with Shuri out of the country and the media hounding me, your people need you."

"I'm no longer the king, Ororo. And they are no longer my people. Wakanda and I have become strangers."

"And what of us, my husband? Have we become strangers as well? I look in your eyes, and all I see is anger. Where are we?"

"We are in hell, Ororo."

_And then he abandoned you to his soldiers, similar to the angels Adam had God send after me. I too was tried, and found guilty, but guilty of what? I was no more guilty than you were, Ororo. Yet we were both punished, left to our harsh fate._

Another twisting of the facts.

"T'Challa came for me."

_He came for the vibranium, not you. _

Ororo could feel the sneer in her voice. They'd been through those memories as well, replaying the arrest, the trial, the incarceration, the murder of S'Yan. But there was one memory Lilith loved the most, and Ororo gave it to her without protest. She could have it, the pain of T'Challa's choice still burned. After all these years, her heart hadn't fully recovered, even though her mind understood.

"The errant knight storm the castle," Doom taunted, "to rescue the beautiful princess and save the kingdom from the evil sorcerer. How prosaic. But, oh, a twist to the tale: the knight must choose between the lovely princess and the treasure on which the kingdom is built."

Mouth gagged, power dampeners on wrists, Ororo could only watch as her husband seethed with hate, falling into yet another of Doom's traps. The vibranium was already gone, yet her husband stood before his greatest enemy thinking there was truly a choice to be made. In retrospect, Doom was very much like Lilith, grinding her heart into pieces, challenging her to see T'Challa as they had, a man who loved nothing, no one, above Wakanda. And in this respect, Lilith and Doom were correct.

"I'm giving you a simple choice: What is more important to you? Your wife or the vibranium? Reveal to me the key to the last lock in five seconds or I kill the one you love most.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Silence.

T'Challa didn't speak and neither did Lilith. She didn't have to. Her point was made, louder than Doom's armor hitting the floor when he'd entered the vibranium vault, coming out the victor, the cache of vibranium and her heart the spoils of his Doomwar.

Slowly, Ororo opened her eyes.

"She's back." Ramonda stood over Ororo's prone form, wrinkled cheeks creased in concern, fear.

Then she heard beeping, felt a tingle in her arm. She looked down, catching Dr. Somide's scrutinizing eyes, her deft fingers checking the IV in Ororo's right arm.

"You gave us quite the scare, my dear," Ramonda said, moving to cup Ororo's cheek, leaning down to place a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Ororo felt like she'd been run over by a forty ton truck. Every part of her ached, and if she wasn't mistaken, she was having labor pains.

_Not now, little ones, not now. Momma needs a little bit more time._

Ororo glanced around the white padded cell, spotting a quiet Zawavari in the corner, staying clear of Dr. Somide. Wise man. The doctor was tending to her patients and any interference from the witch doctor would surely result in him being banned from the room.

Their eyes met and he nodded. Ororo smiled. He'd done it, the rest was up to her. But she had to hold on, keep the babies with her a little longer.

_Not yet, Bright Lady. Give me the strength to keep them safe for just a while longer. Please help me._

"How are you feeling, Ororo?" Dr. Somide lifted Ororo's head, placed a drink before her with a straw, and bid her to drink. The water felt blessedly cool going down her dry throat, the doctor waiting for her to take her fill before answering the question.

"Better?" Ororo nodded. "Your vitals look good, but how do you feel? And," the doctor began, giving Ororo a displeased glare, "don't lie to me. I don't appreciate being made to look the fool."

Ororo knew Dr. Somide was referring to the distraction ploy Ramonda used to get the doctor out of the way for an hour or two, freeing Ororo up to work out the rest of her plan with Zawavari. It had worked, but Ororo took no pleasure in deceiving the woman. And while she had no intention of lying to her again, there was one more thing Ororo had to do, and Dr. Somide wasn't going to like it.

"I'm very tired and," Ororo looked at the three faces staring intently at her, "I think I'm in labor."

And they all gasped, even the eerily collected witchdoctor.

Dr. Somide started buzzing around, examining her machines, and giving orders to nurses. Ororo ignored her.

"How long has it been?" Ororo asked of Ramonda.

The woman grimaced before answering. "Two days and still no word."

Two days? How the hell long had she been out, and why had no one heard from Shuri and T'Challa?

"That long."

"Yes, the plane returned without them. For safety precautions, all Wakandan stealth fighters are programmed to return to base when the fuel level reaches fifty percent, unless given another directive. The tank was full when they left, Ororo. But that's not the only thing."

Ororo pushed a button on her bed, raising the head, giving her a higher angle from which to view her mother-in-law.

"What else is there?"

Ramonda sat on the edge of the bed, taking Ororo's hand in her own.

"One of the guards checked for the most recent commands. T'Challa gave it."

"What was the command?" The question was impatiently asked, Ororo finding it difficult to ignore the way Dr. Somide was poking and prodding her, carrying on worriedly as if the babies would spring forth from her forehead like Athena, fully formed and ready for battle. Ororo resisted the urge to bat the woman's hands from her belly, refocusing instead on the conversation at hand.

"The plane was supposed to wait just outside Nigandan airspace. That makes sense since T'Challa wouldn't have wanted the Nigandan government to know he and Shuri had crossed the border without permission. Even in stealth mode, the longer the plane hovered above, the greater the chance of discovery."

That made sense to Ororo as well.

"But it's been two days, presumably much longer than T'Challa anticipated being there."

"Exactly, Ororo. So the plane, reverting to its default programming, returned home when its fuel gage reached the fifty percent mark."

"Do you have their exact coordinates?" Ororo asked, finally shooing the doctor away from her. With one quick tug, the IV was out and Ororo was on her feet, grateful she wore a sundress and not one of those ass out hospital robes Dr. Somide was so fond of.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dr. Somide demanded, running around the bed and standing in front of Ororo before she could take the first weak step.

Ororo stared down at the doctor, her brown eyes wide and determined, jaw and hands clenched, begging Ororo with her body not to be foolish, not to put herself and the babies in danger.

"Prepare the delivery room. This will take only a few minutes."

Ororo stepped around the shocked doctor who knew a lost cause when she saw one. A soft, "What do you intend to do?" followed Ororo's exit.

Against her better judgment, Ororo answered. "I'm going to kill my husband, then allow you to deliver his children."

Ororo looked over her shoulder to see Ramonda and Zawavari following, eyeing her with horror and respect.

Wind whipped around her as she floated through the empty halls, blue and pink dress billowing, white eyes focused, heart thrumming.

_Finally, I knew you would see things my way, Ororo. T'Challa's hurt you, time and time again. He's taken and given nothing in return. You hate him. We hate him. He deserves to die._

The huge marble entrance doors, to the palace flung open, Ororo's winds preceding her.

Ramonda showed her the small tracking device. Two beeps with precise coordinates. That was all she needed, and then Ororo was airborne, her hair out of their confines, blowing wildly across her flushed face.

She swayed, allowing the air, the elements to fuel her, give her strength. Ororo closed her eyes and Lilith dug even deeper, solidifying her point, taking Ororo back, forcing her to remember. One more. Just. One. More.

Ororo's grandmother looked at the papers on the kitchen table, and then at her granddaughter. She reached across and grasped her hand, sympathy in her aged wise eyes. And if Ororo closed her eyes tight, she could see her mother, her grandmother's daughter. Yet neither one of them would have that luxury ever again. But they had each other, and for Ororo, that was more precious than every piece of vibranium Doom stole.

"This is the third time he's returned the papers," her grandmother said. "T'Challa won't let you go so easily."

"He let me go a long time ago, Grandmother; he just didn't do me the courtesy of filing for divorce first. But I've remedied that oversight."

Her grandmother tsked. "Young people," she huffed. "Your marriage is still in its infancy, too young to claim it a failure." She took a sip from her teacup before pinning Ororo with another disapproving tsk.

"He left _me_," Ororo said.

"I understand."

"No you don't, because if you did you wouldn't be defending him."

Ororo retrieved her hand, balling them into fists.

"I'm not defending T'Challa, I'm simply saying that you need to reconsider, take more time, make sure you really want to dissolve your marriage. Such covenants should not be entered into or ended lightly."

"I didn't come to this decision lightly, Grandmother. I tried; he didn't. I refuse to keep pretending that one day T'Challa will wake up and realize what a terrible mistake he's made. He returned to Wakanda six months ago and I've been here, in Kenya, with you, for half that time. He knows precisely where I am. He knows enough to send these damn divorce papers back to me." Ororo reached for the papers, crumbled them in her hand, setting them aflame. She watched as the papers burned, capturing them in an electrical field, and depositing them in the sink.

"And," she said, rising, "he hasn't tried to contact me once. That should tell you something."

Her grandmother also stood, her coco brown skin and white hair as beautiful as the first day they'd met.

"Perhaps he's used the time to settle old business in Wakanda. He's reclaimed the throne, you know. There's a lot to do, bridges to mend."

"I'm sure you're right. T'Challa is great at mending bridges; almost as good as he is at burning them. Funny," Ororo said with pained sarcasm, "how he can take the time to mend every bridge he's destroyed except his own marriage."

Her grandmother also looked pained and Ororo didn't want to have this conversation anymore. She suddenly felt claustrophobic, needed to get out of the stuffy house for a while, needed to get away from her grandmother's blind trust in T'Challa and their inevitable reconciliation.

There would be no reconciliation. Ororo had once foolishly believed in happily-ever-after, but not anymore. She was no princess, and T'Challa was no knight in shining armor. He was too lost, and she too cynical to find a happy medium, their own fairy tale ending.

"I'm going for a walk." Ororo opened the kitchen door and almost ran into Abasi.

He smiled at her, the way he always did when he saw her. Despite herself, Ororo smiled back, taking small pleasure in knowing that at least one man appreciated her company.

And Ororo knew he was there because of her. It started as an accidental meeting the second night of Ororo's arrival, the lake on her grandmother's massive property, open to friends and family, Abasi's great uncle a longtime friend and neighbor of her grandmother's.

She'd stumbled upon him, sitting on the grass reading a medical journal. They talked and by the time Ororo was ready to go home, she'd learned that Abasi was forty, single, the village doctor, and very sweet. He'd upheld most of the conversation, Ororo too melancholy after visiting a divorce lawyer to do much more than smile and nod politely.

But there were other lake meetings, Ororo enjoying the feel of the water between her toes, the smell of flowers, and the sound of wildlife. And as the days went by, Ororo began to open up and share a bit of herself. But they'd never talked about T'Challa. Abasi knew she was married, knew to whom she was married, but was too smart, too considerate to open that box.

"Are you ready, Ororo?"

"More than ready."

Abasi stepped aside, allowing her to exit. "I'll have her back before it gets too late," Abasi informed her grandmother.

Ororo didn't say good-bye to her grandmother, nor did she look back before Abasi closed the door behind them. She didn't want to see the look in her grandmother's eyes, the one that said she thought Ororo was making another mistake.

But Abasi wouldn't be another mistake. She had no romantic interest in him. Yes, he was handsome. His light brown skin contrasted starkly with his jet black dredlocks. They weren't long, just baby locks, beginning to take form. But they looked good on him, and Ororo knew he would look even better when they grew in fully, falling down his neck and back.

Abasi offered her his arm and she took it. They walked, as usual, in companionable silence down the stoned path, to the lake at the edge of the property.

The sun was just beginning to set and Ororo watched, marveling at the transition, feeling the change in every molecule of her body.

By the time she floated back down to the ground, Abasi had already laid out a blanket. She joined him, and they both sat, gazing out at the softly rolling water.

"I've been . . . um . . . thinking."

Ororo turned to Abasi, shifting her weight onto her left side, her left arm supporting her body, Capri clad legs tucked to the side.

"About what?"

He looked nervous. Ororo never knew him to be nervous around her, even when he'd first seen her fly.

"I know you're in a very . . . delicate situation right now."

Well, that was one way of putting it.

"And I know this probably isn't the best time to be having this conversation, but um. Well, I think you're a very special lady."

Goddess, she didn't see this coming. But she should have, her grandmother had warned her, but Ororo refused to listen, refused to see the signs that were now so painfully obvious.

Her grandmother warned her that she was spending too much time alone with Abasi. But he'd never come on to her, not like so many of the other men in the village. One of them she would expect this from, but not sweet, unassuming Abasi.

"When we first met you looked like a woman who'd lost everything. I wanted to take that haunted, sad gaze away." He touched Ororo's cheek. "I still do. I'm not rich or a king." One finger stroked her bottom lip. "But I don't think any of that matters to you."

"It doesn't."

Ororo was about to turn away, deny his warm touch. As nice as it felt to be wanted, to be the center of attention, this was wrong. And just when she made to move, she felt movement in the air. She pushed against the air, feeling for the subtle movement, and sensed it again. It was almost imperceptible, but she'd sensed it, knew where it came from. Knew only one person could generate such a low-level air ripple—T'Challa.

And the fleeing birds led her straight to him, crouched in a tree, twenty yards away. Anger blossomed anew. Three months on the same continent with no word from him, nine months since he'd left her that note at her grandparent's home, choosing Hell's Kitchen over her, two and a half years of waiting for him to find himself, putting their lives on hold.

So long, too long. And now he watched, waited.

_You hated him. Admit it, Ororo, at that moment, you hated your husband. His pride. His selfishness. _

For once, Lilith was right.

Abasi leaned in, and Ororo accepted the kiss she saw coming, knowing T'Challa was watching, seeing her break her vow of fidelity. And in that one vengeful moment, Ororo wanted her husband to hurt, to burn, to feel all the pain he'd inflicted on her.

And she poured two years of pain into one sinful kiss, opening her mouth to Abasi while closing her heart to T'Challa. And when she'd opened her eyes, T'Challa was gone, and this time, she'd sensed nothing in the air. Empty. Quiet. Bereft. Like her heart, her lost soul.

The dark sky crackled above Ororo, storm clouds forming, streaks of lightning skipping, illuminating her pregnant form.

Arms extended, Ororo prayed to her Bright Lady and the Panther God, asking for their guidance and forgiveness. Lightning hissed, two bolts soaring from the heavens, responding swiftly to the weather witch's call.

They raced, darting through clouds and over mountains, Ororo pulling them, showing them the way, her vision deathly accurate. And they flew, scorching the sky with roars and growls, fast approaching their prey.

Then they were there, and Ororo flew higher, touching the layers of the sky, the ones tainted by acid rain and pollution. Inhaling deeply, she thrust her hands out; fingers spread apart, and mouthed two words: "Kill them."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	10. Chapter 10: Falling

**Chapter 10: Falling**

It was done. Ororo lowered her arms, the gray sky closing in around her, her stomach contracting in pain.

"Not yet," Ororo whispered, eyes drooping, hand going to her belly, gently caressing. "Not yet," she cooed again, beginning a rapid, out-of-control descent. Ororo's mind traveled back, forcing Lilith to watch the rest.

Ororo fled the lake, cursing herself all the way to her grandmother's house. What in the world had she done? What had she been thinking? She hadn't been. She simply hadn't thought beyond her need to hurt T'Challa. And now what?

She reached the back door. The light was still on in the kitchen. Her grandmother always left it on for her whenever Ororo made one of her late night excursions. It was a sweet, grandmotherly gesture, even though Ororo tried to reassure her that she could see in the dark and create her own night light, if necessary.

Deep in thought, Ororo opened the wooden door and entered, hands wiping across downcast, weary eyes. And when she raised them to search for the light switch, T'Challa sat across from her grandmother at the oval, wicker table.

His large form seemed to take up most of the air in the room, and Ororo found herself swallowing— hard and repeatedly— guilt assailing her senses, pulsing through her. Anger that he was apparently going to make her confront what she'd just done, the only thing keeping Ororo upright.

And he looked more handsome than any man had a right to, better than the last time she'd seen him. His hair was neatly trimmed, as usual, face spotless, showing every exquisite, masculine line of his forceful jaw, which by the way, was rigidly clenched. Then there were his bold eyes, cold and bitter. In that instant, T'Challa managed to look more like a Black Panther in his gold and white dashiki than he did when he wore the habit—feral and dangerous.

And it was all directed at Ororo.

She took three steps further into the yellow kitchen that normally reminded Ororo of a rising sun, but now felt like a solar eclipse.

"Go home, T'Challa, we have nothing to discuss. Unless you've come to sign the divorce papers you keep returning," she said with false bravado, belatedly remembering she'd stupidly burned the papers.

Ororo dug her hands deep into her pockets, hoping T'Challa wouldn't notice how badly she was shaking. She couldn't do this, not now, maybe never. All Ororo wanted to do was run and hide, and pray she would one day forget the way her husband was now glaring at her, with contempt and loathing.

"I am home," he answered cryptically, turning to face her fully, his massive, muscled frame covering every inch of the heavy duty wicker chair. "Your grandmother has graciously opened her home to me for the next two months."

Ororo shot her traitorous grandmother a withering look. Her grandmother was unfazed, shrugging her thin shoulders, then crossing her arms over her chest in defiance.

"I told you before, Ororo," her grandmother began, sliding her chair from under the table and rising, "you two need to settle this mess. See what, if anything, is left between you before hasty, prideful decisions are made that can't be so easily undone."

Her grandmother moved to the refrigerator, offering T'Challa a plate of omena stew, dried fish and tomato stew.

Had the entire world gone mad? What was her grandmother doing acting as if they were one happy family? That Ororo's husband hadn't just caught her kissing another man?

"If he's staying, then I'm not." Ororo made to leave, hoping to make it safely pass T'Challa, to the hallway, and up the stairs.

Her hopes were quickly dashed.

Ororo heard the hard thud of the chair T'Challa had been seated in crash to the floor. Then his voice came, low and menacing. "If you take one step out of this house, this kitchen for that matter, I'll hunt down that lust puppy of yours and break every bone in his inconsequential body, starting with the hand he used to pull you to him."

Ororo stopped, her eyes meeting T'Challa's. And she could see the painful truth within. He would do it and it would all be her fault.

"You stay away from him, T'Challa," Ororo demanded, voice threatening to crack, her mind clearly having already done so. For if it hadn't, she wouldn't now be standing in front of her enraged, jealous husband after fleeing an ill-advised embrace.

Without breaking eye contact, T'Challa softened his voice when he addressed Ororo's grandmother. "If you will excuse us, Nana, my wife and I are about to quarrel, and I'd rather you not be exposed to such ugliness. Although," he said, picking up the downed chair, "you may very well hear anyway. My wife has quite a temper, as you already know."

Ororo sneered at him, and then turned beseeching eyes to her grandmother. There was no way she wanted to be left alone with T'Challa, not when he was in such a wretched mood, not when _she_ was the cause of his wretched mood.

Her grandmother nodded her agreement and left. Great.

They both watched her leave, listening as she made her way down the long hallway and up the winding staircase, ending with a firm thud of her bedroom door.

T'Challa faced her again, all the softness he'd shown Ororo's grandmother gone, replaced with hard, grim planes.

"He's just a doctor, T'Challa. Abasi's no match for you. He's no Killmonger or Kraven. If you confront him, you'll likely kill him."

T'Challa stepped closer and she stepped back. Closer. Back. Closer. Back. Ororo ran out of room, her shoulders hitting the kitchen door. T'Challa raised his arms, palms against the door, trapping her between them, his face so close Ororo could smell his after shave lotion—rosehip.

"Maybe I want to kill him. Did it ever occur to you how much danger you were putting that little man in when you allowed him to kiss you?"

Actually, Ororo hadn't, something else for her to feel guilty about.

T'Challa's voice was a dangerous snarl, and he pressed his body into her own, hard, angry muscles sheathed in soft cotton.

T'Challa leaned down and growled low in Ororo's ear. "Did you enjoy the kiss, beloved?"

The way he said the word _beloved_ made Ororo's skin crawl. The term of endearment he once used for her was now laced with deadly venom. Ororo's mind reeled. He was too close. She couldn't think, and was too afraid to move, pinned more by T'Challa's unrelenting glare than his massive body. But he'd asked her a question and deserved the truth. If nothing else, she could do that.

"No. I did _not_ enjoy the kiss. It meant nothing to me; Abasi means nothing to me," Ororo sought to reassure, her voice as soft as T'Challa's was hard.

"Did you want to enjoy it?" T'Challa asked, ignoring her emotional confession.

"No."

He brought his hands to her waist, the tips of his fingers gently stroking the exposed sides, the midriff shirt giving T'Challa unfettered access.

"Do you know what it did to me to see you in his arms? To watch as you willingly gave yourself to another man?"

She felt a harsh tremor run through him, T'Challa's fingers halting their movement, forehead pressed to hers, brown eyes closed.

"I'm sorry," Ororo whispered, but he didn't seem to hear her.

"I could have killed him, you know. I saw myself doing it, my fists torn and covered in his blood." Another tremor. "And I would've enjoyed it, feeling nothing for taking his life because he'd taken from me, defiled my wife, my marriage."

"I'm so sorry, T'Challa. Please-"

"When my father was killed, Ororo," T'Challa interrupted grimly, finally opening his eyes, "I thought that had to be the worst feeling in the world. It took me years to recover, to stop seeing his lifeless body in my dreams, eyes open but unseeing."

Yeah, like the way he was looking at Ororo now. His gripped tightened on her waist—possessive—almost painful.

"I was wrong, beloved. What I saw today cut just as deep." T'Challa took her trembling hand and placed it over his heart. "We took vows."

"I know." Ororo began to cry, slow, soft tears pooling and falling.

"You are still my wife, legally and spiritually."

Ororo fisted his shirt, the heavy thudding of his heart hard against her hand. "I know. I didn't mean to—''

"That's just it, you did mean to. You knew I was watching, you wanted me to see, to know how much I'd hurt you. You wanted to hurt me in return, to make me bleed, to turn my heart inside out. And you did, more effectively than Klaw ever could."

Ororo didn't know what to say. He was right. Goddess help her, he was right, and she felt the unimaginable weight of what she'd done slam into her.

"Is that how I made you feel—unwanted, unloved?"

She didn't answer.

"Do you hate me?" The question barely reached her ears, so low did T'Challa ask, closing his eyes, refusing to see the answer before she spoke.

"At that moment, I did. Yes."

"And now, Ororo?"

She shook her head. "I don't hate you, T'Challa."

He sighed in relief, and so did she, relaxing her hold on his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles after Ororo had let go.

"Do you still love me?"

Ororo did not want to answer that, make herself even more vulnerable than she already felt.

T'Challa placed two fingers under her chin and lifted her face to his. And she could now see the tears in his eyes, overshadowed only by sadness, regret.

"Some may say that I don't deserve you. That what happened at the lake between you and that doctor was my fault, reaping what I sowed. And perhaps they would be right. But no matter, we are still husband and wife and certain boundaries should never be crossed."

"I know," Ororo repeated, not knowing how to make him understand the depth of her own regret.

"I was a selfish, self absorbed ass the last two and a half years. But never. You hear me, Ororo? Not once did I betray you, break my vow of fidelity."

"There are more ways to break a vow, T'Challa, than indulging in a meaningless tryst."

"I know." He released her but didn't step back. "At least I've come to know that. I've had plenty of time to think, to brood, to curse myself for being so stupid."

"Why are you here? I've been in Kenya for months and you've made no attempt to contact me."

"I had arrangements to make before I saw you."

T'Challa gave Ororo even more room. In fact, he turned from her and walked away; reclaiming the chair he'd nearly broken fifteen minutes ago.

"Please sit so we can talk."

Ororo didn't think she could walk, her heart still felt as if it would burst from her chest. She'd never seen her husband so angry with her, with himself, with a man he'd never met before but would've have surely slaughtered if he had even an ounce less self-control. For the first time in a long while, Ororo was grateful for T'Challa's discipline. Gathering her last reserve of strength, Ororo walked the short distance, joining her husband at the table.

"In spite of what you may believe," T'Challa began, his voice strangely conversational, "I haven't given up on this marriage of ours. I know I've handled things badly, and for that, I offer you my humblest of apologies."

"You're apologizing? To me?"

She was stunned. T'Challa never apologized. Never.

"I know words mean little. I know it will take more than a few _I'm sorry's _and _I'll never do it again's_ to get you back, to re-earn your trust." He winced. "And judging from today, it's clear I have my work cut out for me."

Ororo shook her head. "Just sign the divorce papers, T'Challa. We don't have to keep doing this, hurting each other needlessly."

"What I said in New York still stands, Ororo. I won't sign them."

"Why the hell not?" she snapped.

"Because you're my wife," he answered just as fiercely. "Because you're everything I've ever wanted. Because I went to Hell's Kitchen and back to find myself just to discover that I'd lost something so much more important."

Ororo stared at him, T'Challa's nose flaring, eyes a deeper, more vibrant shade of brown.

"Because I've been a fool. Because I'm a prideful and selfish bastard and want what I don't deserve." He lowered his voice and moved his chair closer to Ororo. "Because I love you and won't let you go without a fight."

Ororo gulped, the power of his words hitting her like a Gale force wind, knocking the air from her lungs.

"Sixty days, Ororo."

"What?"

"Sixty days, two months, that's all I ask. If by the end of the sixty days, if you still want a divorce, I'll sign those damn papers without complaint. I'll give you your freedom and never bother you again."

Ororo squinted at her husband doubtfully. "What's the catch? What aren't you telling me?"

"No catch, Ororo, just terms of agreement. I already told you what I'll give you."

"Signed divorce papers in return for sharing my grandmother's home for two months? That's it?"

"Not quite."

She didn't think so.

"I want you to lower your barriers, open yourself to the possibility of a reconciliation, allow me to court you, wine and dine you the way I should've before we wed."

"Date? You want to court your own wife?" Ororo knew everything from her confused contorted face to her shaky voice registered disbelief. T'Challa, the King of Wakanda, former Black Panther, did not do dating. Yet here he was offering, his face as serious as his words.

"I know I can't repair all I've broken in that short period of time. But I think it'll give me enough time to lay a strong foundation, make my case, convince you I'm worthy of another chance. All I ask is that you don't sabotage my efforts. That you enter into the agreement in good faith, putting forth your own effort to meet me part way. I can't do this by myself, Ororo. Both of us must want it."

Again, Ororo was speechless. But he waited, as patient as ever. Finally, she found her voice and her head.

"What about Wakanda? You're king again; you can't just up and leave for two months."

He gave a nonchalant shrug. "As you said, I'm king. I'll do as I please. That's what took me three months. I had to put certain structures in place first before I could leave for an extended period of time. Shuri knows what to do, but was told only to contact me in case of an emergency. Short of that, I'm off grid."

"Off grid?" she echoed, feeling blindsided. T'Challa had turned Wakanda back over to Shuri? To spend time with her? To court his wife?

"And if at the end of the two months, you're still not sure, not ready to return with me to Wakanda, I'll—''

"You'll what, T'Challa? Take another two months?" she asked, the continued doubt unmistakable in her voice.

Another uncharacteristic shrug, his movements graceful. "If I have to. I told you, Ororo, you're my wife. I won't let you go without giving it all I got, all I have. And if it turns out not to be enough, I'll return to Wakanda alone and face the wrath of my mother. She misses you by the way."

And Ororo missed Ramonda. And Shuri. And Wakanda. Even the determined man eyeing her hopefully.

"Do you love me, Ororo? Enough to attempt the trek out of the abyss I dropped us in?"

Those hopeful eyes suddenly shadowed with fear, but he held her gaze, willing the truth from her mouth, her heart. And Ororo could no more lie to him than she could to herself.

She nodded, and then said, "Yes."

T'Challa's eyes brightened, but not with arrogance. No, the man before her had shed that unappealing character trait when he tracked Ororo to the lake, watched her kiss another, and forgave her without saying the words. Ororo was sure she wouldn't have been so magnanimous if she'd caught T'Challa in the same compromising position. In fact, she knew she wouldn't have, the tramp would've definitely suffered serious electrical shock.

"One more term of agreement." Ororo rose, tired beyond belief, and headed to the kitchen's threshold. "No sex."

T'Challa also stood, looking as if he was overdue for a good night's sleep himself. And dammit if he didn't give her another shrug.

"I figured as much. A man can only bargain for so much when he isn't in the power position. Besides," T'Challa said, covering a yawn behind one of his large hands, "outside of that quickie on your grandparents' couch, months ago, I've lived the life of a monk."

Yeah, Ororo knew the feeling, her awe for nuns growing each day of her celibacy.

T'Challa moved to her then, quickly claiming her lips in one smooth motion, his tongue diving in after her surprised gasp. And he tasted as good as he felt, tongue softly probing. Yet his lips were hard, nearly brutal in the way he took her, reminding Ororo to whom she belonged. And there was most assuredly residual anger in T'Challa's kiss, his teeth and scent marking her, driving away the smell of Abasi Ororo was sure T'Challa could still smell on her.

And Ororo gave in to him, accepting his possession for what it was—an apology and a promise. She was his, like he said, but he would do all within his power to right his wrongs, to rebuild their rickety marriage bridge.

"_My. Wife._" T'Challa said this as a point of undeniable fact, his eyes daring Ororo to contradict him. She didn't. For now, Ororo was indeed still T'Challa's wife.

"I concede the sex but reserve the right to shower you with ravaging kisses in the hope that you'll put us both out of our misery, inviting me to your bed, into your warm, wet womanhood."

She gulped, her mind battling her body for control.

"It's late, T'Challa, let's just turn in. _Separately_," Ororo added as an afterthought.

"Agreed. Besides, I have a long day planned for the two of us tomorrow, starting with breakfast in bed."

Breakfast in bed?

"No breakfast in bed," she argued, following T'Challa as he made his way down the dim hallway. "In fact, you may not enter my room without permission."

"Too late, beloved, negotiations are over." T'Challa turned right, swiftly ascending the stairs.

"Over? According to whom?"

"According to you. The whole no sex thing slammed the door on any further negotiations."

"That's not fair." Ororo bumped into T'Challa's back when he abruptly stopped in front of the second guest room. He raised one finger, placing it over his lips, shushing her.

He was right. Ororo didn't want to wake her grandmother. But damn him.

"I wasn't the one who said, 'one more term of agreement,' "

Ororo stared unblinking at T'Challa, and then began to laugh softly.

"Have it your way, King T'Challa. I guess I'll just have to keep my door locked."

T'Challa gave her a challenging look before opening the door to his room. "You know, Ororo," T'Challa said as the door to his room slowly closed, "I wasn't Black Panther for nothing."

The door closed firmly behind him, leaving Ororo alone in the hallway, wondering what the next sixty days would bring. Improbably, she smiled, locking the door securely behind her, knowing when she'd awake T'Challa would be inside, breakfast tray in hand, smug smile greeting her.

Yes, she loved him, had never stopped loving him, even when she filed for divorce. But not since that fateful plane crash three years ago, had Ororo felt truly loved and desired in return. She would allow her husband to court her. And by the end of the two months, she would either have a home to return to or signed divorce papers. Either way, Ororo would have closure, peace.

But as fatigue pulled her under, encouraging her to succumb to the dreamscape, Ororo knew she would dream of him, what he offered, and the hope he dangled before her. Hope. Yes, she would dream of hope, of the future, their future. Together. As one.

Ororo's eyes closed, exhaustion claiming her. And then she was falling, wind speeding pass her, whipping her mane into a mass of disorganized chaos.

Her body careened swiftly through the air, clouds giving way, the elements waiting for a command she was too weak to give.

Still she fell, the pull of the earth's gravity doing its job with efficiency, the ground waiting to catch her in its hard, unforgiving bosom.

And somewhere in her fogged-clouded mind, Ororo heard screams. Women screaming? Ramonda? Dr. Somide? Couldn't be. Why would they be screaming?

They were too loud. She couldn't sleep with so much noise. Goddess, all Ororo wanted to do was sleep. Sleep. And wake to find T'Challa next to her, reading to the twins, his chest puffed out and proud. So proud. Her T'Challa. What would she ever do without him?

Ororo never wanted to find out. So she wrapped herself around the cool night air, and relaxed, allowing the winds to rock her to sleep.

And she fell.

Down.

Down.

Down.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	11. Chapter 11: Caught

**Chapter 11: Caught**

**Part 1**

She felt herself falling, darkness and pain looming before her. And still she fell, tumbling toward a bleak, lonely future. Then there was nothing but the pain, followed by a lake of crimson, flowing, spreading, decorating thighs, stomach, and clothing.

So much blood.

And pain.

Pain.

Pain.

And loss.

So much loss.

How did she get to this place? Crumpled on the floor, body contorted, life seeping from her, a wave of nausea and cramping assaulting her, purging her pitiful form of life. Their lives. The lives of innocents. Her children. His children. But he was dead now, and soon, so would his children.

She had nothing left, their life force seeping from her with each shallow breath forced from her clogged lungs, punctuating her wretched state with imagined baby cries. But the wails were not from her unborn, no, they were from her.

And she screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

The house shook, the foundation screaming with her, embroiled in her heartache, screeching with unbridled agony. And then the pounding noise came again, a whirling rocket careening through the night sky, forcing her to cover her ears.

And then there was more screaming, and she knew it was no longer for her loss, no longer decrepit memories from children that would never be. Her heart clenched and nearly stopped, fear gripping her, the booming sound of lightning growing closer. And closer. And closer still.

Boom!

The house exploded in pale, white light, blinding her, cool air where there had been none now flooded her senses. She cowered against the back wall, arms and hands up, covering her ears, eyes squinting in the dangerous bright light.

But she saw it, heard it, her cloak soaking with sweat, the blood of her dead children long since cleaned away, except in her tortured mind.

Her eyes swept upward, pieces of wood and metal floated down, a stream of moonlight illuminating the dark room from where a ragged hole now was. Following the path of light, her eyes widened, and she pushed back another scream. It was impossible. This couldn't be happening.

But it was, the naked body of her summoned demon lay smoldering on the hard, wooden floor, a hole the size of a baseball sizzling from his open chest. And towering above her was . . .

"Did you really think that would work?"

The witch's eyes darted from the dead demon to the living Black Panther. She opened her mouth to cast a protective spell.

"Oh no you don't."

Knuckles and leather connected with her mouth, sending her head into the wall, cracking both, blood and teeth quickly tumbling out her mouth. She raised her hands, covering her bleeding mouth, the brutal pain dulling her other senses.

"You sorry, witch. I've been wanting to do this for a long time."

And the Black Panther attacked, pulling her roughly to her feet, only to slam her against the wall again. And again. And again.

She felt blood oozing from her head, mouth, nose, and both ears. Still the beating didn't stop, arms, legs, and pleading doing nothing to forestall the next blow. And there were many next blows, fierce punches and kicks meant to disable but not kill.

No, the Black Panther didn't want her dead, the witch knew that with certainty. And while she found a sliver of relief in that fact, each broken bone made her wonder if death wouldn't be easier.

"No, please stop!" She raised her right hand, the left arm broken, hanging limp by her side.

The Black Panther knelt beside her downed, broken body, and removed her mask. An angry snarl met her before she reached out and grabbed the witch's defenseless hand. And while the witch's plot was unraveling right before her very swollen eyes, she still had time. She wasn't quite defeated yet.

"Who are you?" the Black Panther demanded, twisting her thumb in a direction no finger was meant to go. It broke and she cried out, wishing she'd killed her when she'd had the chance.

She didn't think she could speak, but refusing didn't look good for her remaining four fingers. The wild, barely tamed look in the Panther's eyes confirmed her bleak assessment.

"M-my name is Aluna Otieno."

The Black Panther's eyes hardened even more, showing the barest of white teeth now.

"That's a Wakandan name." Her grip on Aluna's hand tightened, and she thought she would break another finger. "You're Wakandan?"

Aluna nodded then regretted the slight movement. Pain bolted through her head, down her neck, and to her throbbing back.

The Black Panther looked disgusted by her, dropping her hand and wiping her own on her pant leg, as if she'd been holding camel dung.

"Another traitorous Wakandan, I should've known."

"Known what?"

Aluna looked up, the bedroom door suddenly open and filled with two massive bodies. King T'Challa dropped his burden from his shoulder onto the floor. And there lay her two demons—dead and utterly useless.

"I see the witch sent a demon after you as well, big brother." King T'Challa nodded before removing his mask.

Then two sets of deep brown eyes turned her way, grim, serious faces boring into her, but she refused to wilt under the pressure. Her body may be broken, but her spirit wasn't.

Aluna glanced up at the hole in her roof, and smiled.

"You haven't won yet," she taunted, feeling both foolish and brave. The Black Panther took one step toward her, but King T'Challa spoke, halting his sister's intended attack.

"Close the portal and we'll get you medical help," he said, his voice calm, sincere even. Aluna didn't believe him, would never trust such a man. He'd done too much, taken so much from her.

"After all I've done to summon Lilith, I would never close the portal." Aluna eyed the speck of sky through the hole once more, her smile brightening. "Besides, it's too late. The third blue moon has finally arrived. There's nothing you, your barbaric sister, or me can do to put the genie back in the bottle."

She wanted to laugh with glee, take her pleasure in her enemies' angry, impotent expressions, but she could do nothing but coldly stare, her body too bruised and weak to do more.

King T'Challa stepped closer and Aluna remembered how close she and her comrades had come to eradicating him and his supporters. So close.

"Why?" he asked, brown eyes surprisingly soft. "What did I ever do to you to make you hate me so, cause you to want to harm two innocent babies?"

Aluna spat blood, spraying his black boots. "You ruined my family," she ground out, pushing herself up and against the cracked wall. "You killed him, broke his neck, leaving me alone and pregnant." She wiped at the stray tears she couldn't keep from forming and falling. Falling. Just the way she had when she'd learned of his death, sorrow clouding her head and eyes, sending her down the steps.

"I lost my babies because of you. You took everything from me. And now I'll take all you love from you. You'll know my pain, my sorrow. And just when your heart can no longer take the loss, the pain, Lilith will kill you."

"Otieno," the Black Panther mumbled, then moved to stand next to her brother. "I knew I recognized that name from somewhere."

"You should. Barasa Otieno was my husband, the leader of the Desturi, and the king killed him." Aluna trembled with righteous anger, the pain from the beating she'd taken mild in comparison to her relived grief.

"I looked for you," the Black Panther said, clicking her teeth in annoyance. "You slipped through my net." She glanced about the small room. "I guess this was your safe house, why my men couldn't find you and the other Desturi Council's wives."

The Black Panther lowered herself to Aluna's level, hand coming out to fist her cloak, dragging her to her feet, ignoring her whimpers of pain.

"You stupid, bitch. T'Challa didn't kill your worthless, traitorous husband, I did. And if I had found you," she looked at her flat stomach, "with or without child, I would've snapped your neck just as quickly as I did his."

"Shuri," King T'Challa growled. "This isn't helping."

"You heard her, big brother. Aluna has no intention of closing the portal. Besides, if we're to believe her, it's too late."

The Black Panther slammed Aluna against the wall, drawing more blood from one of the many cuts in her scalp.

"I can understand your anger, need for revenge, even your pain. Your husband was a traitorous piece of shit, no real loss there. But babies, well, I've never been pregnant, but I wouldn't wish that kind of pain on anyone. Not even you, Aluna. Yet," Aluna's shoulders collided into the wall this time, "Ororo was tried by your husband and sentenced to death."

The Black Panther laughed, humorless and with malice. "He cursed her for being a mutant and a witch, all the while hiding his real witch wife out in Niganda."

Aluna saw it coming but could do nothing. Her nose cracked, the hand that slapped her quick and hard. Blood spurted then fell. "What our enemies will soon learn is that we may be three, but we move as one. No one can come between us again, not you, not your manipulative demons, not even our own differences."

The Black Panther dragged Aluna across the floor and dropped her next to the dead demons. She pointed and Aluna followed, her eyes settling on a red blinking dot on both of the demon's foreheads, just under the skin.

"Tracking devices," King T'Challa said. "Once placed on the skin, they become one with the specimen, absorbed and hell to remove without the proper equipment. My wife took longer than we'd expected, but," he nudged the leg of one of the demons with his booted foot, "the queen always delivers."

Aluna lay sprawled on the hard, unforgiving floor, her enemies glowering at her with disdain, their arrogance clear in their contemptuous eyes. She thought she'd had them, both caught in her spider's web, their minds under her control. But they'd only been waiting, biding their time for the mutant queen to send her bolts of death to her home, destroying Aluna's competitive edge.

And just when she was ready to close her eyes and admit defeat, she heard it, loud, whirling sounds pulling her back from the edge. It wasn't the same as a clear win, but Lilith was still free, and in a few minutes, Aluna wouldn't be alone. The brother and sister hadn't won, the game was tied up, and with a second wind, she was ready for overtime.

"That would be the Nigandan military," Aluna said smugly, peering through swollen eyes, watching as her enemies gazed out of the bedroom window. "They don't take kindly to the leaders of Wakanda entering their country without authorization and assaulting one of their citizens."

Shuri laughed, again humorless and with malice. "Perhaps if they'd known what kind of Wakandan citizen you'd been they wouldn't have accepted your immigrant status without question. No matter," she shrugged, "the helicopter I hear won't get here in time to save your pathetic witch hide."

"B-but you can't kill me. I'm a citizen of Niganda now; you have no authority over me." Aluna found herself pleading to the last man she ever thought she would look to for help. "You can't allow her to do this; it's murder. You're king, call off your wild dog, you can't sentence me to death. You c-can't."

King T'Challa muscled form loomed over top of her, his face impassive, voice firm but soft when he spoke. "No one's coming for you, Aluna Otieno." He held up a small mechanical device that looked like a cell phone. "Jammer. Whatever signal you thought you sent went no further than this house."

"Not true!" she yelled, true fear beginning to simmer, boiling inside, burning all hope of a last minute rescue. "I hear them. They're coming for me."

King T'Challa shook his head. "What you hear is indeed a chopper, but it's coming for us, not you. I imagine it returned to Wakanda while you had us under your spell, was refueled, and programmed to go back to its last destination and wait. When I was freed from your little mind maze, I called it to this location."

"No one's coming, witch. You've run out of options. Unless," the Black Panther said impatiently, raising her foot to Aluna's throat, "you tell us how to stop this Lilith you summoned. Otherwise," the foot pressed harder, Aluna wrenched helplessly against the pain, "you are of no use to us, and I'll just do to you what I did to your coward of a husband. Except, I won't dirty my hands touching you, my foot will do."

Aluna tried to swallow her fear, but the lump couldn't make it pass the crazed woman's very determined foot. And she was crazy, Aluna knew that now for sure, and her former king was going to allow his Black Panther to kill her, a defenseless, beaten woman.

"I can't stop her. With the formation of the blue moon, Lilith is far beyond my control. There's nothing I can do for the queen or the twins." It was a sad, whispered admission. Aluna had lost, and now she would die—alone and unloved, finally able to join her husband and babies. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad fate after all. At least the pain, the unforgiving pain would finally, blessedly, end.

Aluna closed her eyes and waited for the pop that would precede the breaking of her neck and her death. She waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing.

She hazard to open her eyes, and saw them still staring down at her. "A year ago I would've killed you. Hell, six months ago I probably would have as well. But," the Black Panther said, hoisting Aluna to her feet, "I'm learning how to manage my anger. Admittedly, you wouldn't know it from the way I kicked your ass after awaking from your spell."

The crazy woman removed a thin metal string from her utility belt and fastened it around Aluna's wrist, securing both hands around her back. "But," she continued, "you did summon a demon who not only invaded my mind, but tried to invade my body. Now, I'm just not in to that. So yeah, a little ass whippin was in order. Just to get your attention. I'm sure you understand."

"Stop playing with your prey, Shuri, and get a move on. We don't have much time. I need to get back home."

"Did you get a message from Ororo?"

"The fact that she took hours to respond to the trackers, then sent two lightning bolts so potent they killed incredibly strong demons is all the message I need. As far as I'm concerned, that's her way of saying she's in trouble and need for us to get home as soon as possible."

Gagged, Aluna was carried over T'Challa's shoulder and loaded into the waiting plane. The plane lifted quietly into the air and she knew she was on her way home, back to a place she thought she would never see again. And what awaited her when she arrived? A prison cell? A death sentence? A mob of Wakandans loyal to the triumvirate?

Aluna didn't know, but held out no hope for her life if the queen or heirs died. Anger management classes or not, Aluna knew if that happened the Black Panther would come for her. And this time, she would finish the job.

**Part 2**

"Awake, my child, it is not yet your time."

Ororo stirred, the feel of something cold and wet pushing against her face. Slowly, she opened her eyes, focus eluding her.

"A little more, Ororo, and it will be done."

Warmth enveloped her, slid over her body, wrapping her in otherworldly strength.

She tried again, forcing her eyes to open wider, clearing her mind of the thick fog of confusion, exhaustion. And when it finally lifted, melted away into nothingness, she saw it, her.

Cautiously, Ororo raised her right hand, praying that dead people didn't dream because, if her memory was correct, Ororo knew she should be dead, not staring at the nose of the Panther God.

Yet the nudge came again, the cold, wet snout finding the side of Ororo's face. And her hand settled on the nose, gently stroking, drawing even more clarity from the slight contact. She wasn't dead, her free fall hadn't killed her.

"You saved me," Ororo managed to mutter, her mouth dry, tongue thick and heavy.

"Of course, you are as much my child as Shuri and T'Challa. The three of you are Wakanda. And you hold the future of Wakanda inside of you."

Ororo quickly moved her other hand to her stomach, relieved to feel the hefty protrusion.

"They are safe, and so are you. Worry not, Ororo, all will be well, Lilith is gone."

_Gone?_

Ororo searched her mind, her body. It was true; she no longer felt Lilith's presence. But Ororo shook her head. She knew better. Lilith may have left her body, but she wasn't gone. She hadn't gotten what she'd come for, Ororo hadn't killed T'Challa. Surely, the demon spirit had to know that by now. So where was she?

Ororo lay between the Panther God's enormous paws, his eyes roaming over her form, smelling her when she didn't move.

"Are you ready, Ororo? I have to return you; the babies will not wait much longer. They are ready to enter the world."

Ororo closed her eyes, found a lock of the god's mane, and twisted it around her trembling fingers.

"What if I'm not ready? What if I'm no good at being a mother?"

Warm, patient air tickled her face and Ororo opened her eyes, feeling Bast's reassuring breath coat her, skin absorbing the loving, mystical energy of the ancient deity.

"My dear, Ororo, you are capable of love, forgiveness, patience, and contrition, all of which you've shown yourself and T'Challa. If not for that, the precious ones you hold so tightly within would not exist. A woman who loves and fights, and cares as fiercely as you do is the only woman capable of birthing and raising the next generation of Black Panthers."

More heat cascaded over her body, Bast's words fortifying her spirit, shoring up her soul. "Go now, my child. I'll watch and catch you if you shall fall."

And she drifted, drifted, and drifted, her surroundings falling away and reforming under and around her until the familiar smells and sounds of a hospital room crystallized.

"Oh, thank the Panther God!" Ramonda exclaimed when Ororo opened her weak blue eyes.

There were other voices and noises, people scurrying about in the background. Dr. Somide's voice was brisk and curt, her orders quickly followed by intimidated nurses. She was asking her something, appearing grave above Ororo, but she couldn't focus on her concerned words, multitude of questions.

Ororo only wanted to know one thing, and she forced the words through her labor pains and out her quivering lips. "Has my husband returned? Where's T'Challa?"

"He's on his way, dear. He'll get here in time." Ramonda's tone was suitably reassuring, but Ororo knew a lie when she heard one. He was on his way, but he wouldn't be in time. There was no more time; the twins were coming.

**TO BE CONCLUDED**

**Author's Note: **For some unknown reason, the leader of the Desturi was never named, nor were the other men that made up his council. I took the liberty of giving him a name and a wife and a revenge story was born.


	12. Chapter 12: Plan B

**Chapter 12: Plan B**

**Part 1**

The plane darted through the misty, dull clouds, a magnificent Golden Eagle swooping and swaying, its heavy thick wings cutting through the air with delicate, masterful precision. Yet it wasn't enough, the speed too slow, wind currents moving like a languid woodcock out for an early morning flight.

"ETA, Shuri," T'Challa asked impatiently, hovering over her instead of sitting in the co-pilot seat.

"Subtract five minutes from the last time you asked and you'll have the answer." It was an annoyed snap of a response. She didn't even bother to hide her own impatience. Shuri was doing the best she could, going as fast as the plane would allow, breaking all rules of flying safety and a few physics ones as well. His sister was as anxious to reach Wakanda as T'Challa. He knew that, but that didn't stop T'Challa from nagging her every five minutes.

He needed to be home now, before the twins were born. T'Challa prayed he wasn't already too late. And the weather wasn't helping.

T'Challa peered out the window to his right and saw nothing but black sky. But the cool, calm night sky was deceptive. But it was the alarming high winds, murderous thunder claps, and intermittent sparks of lightning that told the true tale. All was not well, and the closer the plane got to Wakanda, the more intense the weather disturbances became.

Small tornadoes were deftly avoided, but the hailstorm they now approached was ominous, unforgiving. Unable to avoid the glacial ice drops, Shuri powered the plane through, T'Challa activating defensive shields before they entered the heart of the storm.

Worried, Shuri turned to him. "Have you been able to get through to the palace?"

T'Challa shook his head. He'd contacted his mother as soon as they boarded the plane. Giving him no details about his wife, she'd only urged him to get home as quickly as possible, like she needed to tell him that. But there was something in Ramonda's voice, a fear she couldn't completely mask with her brisk command.

But that was over an hour ago, before the weather turned from tepid to traitorous. Communications to Wakanda were down, T'Challa unable to contact anyone that could let him know the status of his family.

Angry, T'Challa swung around to face the woman responsible for all of this. The witch, Aluna, lay tied up in one of the black, leather seats, passed out. Her breathing was labored, rough, T'Challa assumed from a broken rib or two.

He moved closer, inspecting the petite woman. And she was petite, her weight negligible when T'Challa carried her to the plane. The woman probably couldn't boast more than five feet, but her desire for revenge was as large and lethal as any Goliath. Yet another reminder that one's enemies came in all shapes and sizes.

T'Challa stared at Aluna, wanting to hate her, needing to cast his ravenous anger, dimly checked fear, and building impotence on the woman before him. Yet the more he watched and listened to each ragged breath, eyes swollen shut, nose and mouth dotted with dried blood, the sadder T'Challa became.

Here he was feeling totally helpless, useless to his wife and children, praying to reach Ororo in time, be there for her in her time of need—protect them. And wasn't that exactly what Aluna Otieno wanted for herself, to protect her children, to keep them safe, to see them born healthy, to marvel in their innocent life, their brilliant shining light.

Yet she was denied. And, no, T'Challa wouldn't accept the blame Aluna so caustically placed at his feet. That honor went to her husband, Barasa, the unscrupulous Desturi leader, who would see T'Challa's own wife executed if he'd had his way. And Aluna supported the coup, aided her husband, T'Challa remembered reading the reports. All the Desturi Councilmen's wives were willing supporters. They were no innocents, dragged into the fire by overpowering husbands. No, they believed in the cause, whispered discontent in the ears of weak-minded, disloyal Wakandans, planted the seed, watered it, and watched it take root.

No, Aluna Otieno was as guilty as the dead and imprisoned Desturi. But her children . . . well, they were a different story. And to that end, T'Challa could understand Aluna's need for revenge, desire to spread her pain, her toxicity. But she would not be allowed to assuage her pain, fill her emotional maternal void by creating it within Ororo. That, T'Challa simply would not allow.

T'Challa could forgive many things. And if he'd learned Aluna and the other wives had fled to Niganda, he would've placed them under surveillance, but nothing more, the empty beach homes now taking on a different light to T'Challa. They were probably intended as a safe house for the Desturi Council if things went wrong for them in Wakanda. Things had gone wrong, terribly wrong, and their wives had fled the country. Yet, Aluna Otieno was the only one of the wives who, apparently, stayed on after the beach was shut down, the other women clearly having moved away to places unknown. And now T'Challa couldn't help but wonder about those other women, wonder if they too posed a threat to him and his family.

And then there was Shuri and what happened to her with the demon. Shuri could be a hothead, even brutal at times, but she'd grown a lot over the past year. Yet she'd nearly killed Aluna Otieno, a woman who, physically, was no match for her.

T'Challa turned back to his sister, watching as she meticulously avoided a tornado funnel, her lovely brown face scrunched up in intense concentration. He wouldn't ask now, recalling how effectively the demon had invaded his heart, pulling out T'Challa's greatest fears, most debilitating insecurities. For hours, T'Challa was forced to watch his children die over and over and over again. And when the bodies of his unborn weren't melting and screeching their baby tears, Ororo was mocking him with vulgar laughter as she took one man after another to her bed—Logan, Scott, Forge, Kurt, even the doctor he caught her kissing by the lake.

The images were revolting and wholly improbable. Yet the demon persisted, T'Challa unable to block the emotional assault. But worst was the fact that T'Challa had ever been that insecure in his relationship with his wife. And when he would stumble back to his dark, lonely apartment after fighting some low-life Hell's Kitchen scum, T'Challa would ache for his wife's soft, soothing embrace, afraid she would one day give up on him, and seek comfort from another.

And if the demon had so effectively tortured T'Challa, he couldn't help but wonder what the other demon had done to Shuri for all those hours. Whatever it was, it had made her so angry with the witch that she'd almost killed her.

"ETA, Shuri?"

"Get ready, T'Challa," she said, the plane taking a sudden dip, "I'm almost over the palace now."

T'Challa understood, she wouldn't waste time by landing, he would have to jump.

He made his way to the trap door in the bottom of the plane and waited for Shuri to give him the signal. Five minutes later, the door swung opened and T'Challa was airborne, his air flyer sailing over the palace's helipad.

Landing with a smooth thud, T'Challa jumped from the flyer, and darted to the roof elevator. Impatiently, he vaulted inside, quickly ascertaining the location of his wife from the guard's stationed on the roof.

T'Challa took the elevator down to subbasement one, removing boots and habit during the seemingly endless ride. With the first ding of arrival, T'Challa bolted through the doors, running at a breakneck speed down the hall and to the decontamination chamber.

"Open the doors!" he yelled to the stunned guards. They did as their king ordered, the doors to the chamber quietly sliding to each side, a dim green light sparkling overhead.

Once inside, T'Challa hit the CLOSE button and the vibranium doors slid back into place. Two more buttons later, T'Challa stood in a fog covered room, homeopathic decontaminates raining down on his near naked muscled form, the stench of blood, sulfur, and sweat chemically removed from his body.

Roof to the chamber had taken ten minutes. He'd estimated twelve. Not bad but he still hadn't reached his destination.

One minute later, T'Challa was back on the elevator, naked except for a pair of skintight black, knee length under armor trunks—perfect for the task ahead.

Two more minutes and T'Challa was rounding the corner of the maternity wing, barreling to the room at the end of the hall. Again, guards gawked, but not at his near naked state, no, they were smiling, some even cheering, the exuberant applause making him move faster, encouraging hope that he wasn't too late.

Thirty seconds later he swung the heavy metal doors open, the room awash in effervescent light, his wife sweaty, agitated, and thankfully, still pregnant.

**Part 2**

"Lialah, angel of conception, I have waited so long to have a child of my own. I have cleared the way to call into my life healthy and loving children of my own. I promise I will nurture, respect, and protect these children just as God nurtures, loves, and protects me. In advance, I am forever grateful for having you assist me in this co-creation with God. I understand this is truly a blessed event that will take place in my life and I will be the best mother for these children, as loving and true as my own."

Ororo finished the prayer and opened her eyes. And like an angel descending the heavens, T'Challa entered the birthing room, his masculine, warrior glory no less than Archangel Gabriel himself. But T'Challa was better than any angel created in heaven, he was her prayer, the answering reply to all Ororo's dreams and hopes.

"Thank the Panther God," Ramonda sighed with relief, her prayers having been fulfilled as well.

But Ororo only had eyes for him, his hypnotically dark form cast against too bright lights, the bulge of each hard earned muscle glowing from the magical symbols placed on his body by Zawavari.

And then he was by her side, wrapping Ororo in strong, sure arms, warm tears falling from her eyes and onto his supportive shoulders. He was home and she was whole again. And their children were ready, having waited as long as they could for their father to arrive.

Ororo felt herself floating, cool air finding exposed skin, the sheet covering her now flapping around her. Then clammy skin met warm, refreshing water, slowly pulling Ororo back to the here and now.

T'Challa was with her now, holding her, both immersed in the birthing tub, grateful her husband left her with a shred of modesty, her sports bra was all that remained of Ororo's covering, a white sheet replacing panties and dress once her water broke.

But none of that mattered now, Ororo could relax, let go, and simply focus on having the twins, knowing T'Challa would take care of the rest. He'd promised to never leave her, to always be there for her and their children. He'd promised and Ororo had staked her future on her husband's words of honor, his integrity, his love for her. He'd promised. And he was here.

"How?" she whispered.

T'Challa kissed the hand she'd placed on his cheek, needing to confirm his presence, his solid, dependable form.

His answer was to stroke her cramping belly, his words spoken softly in her ear. "You waited for me, beloved, and I thank you. Recall the tempest now. Let me put an end to this Lilith business so we can usher our children into the world."

Before she could reply, T'Challa was gone, his warmth, his power, his solid force suddenly absent. Bereft, Ororo focused, and gasped when she saw T'Challa going toward the balcony doors.

"No!" she yelled, but it was too late. T'Challa had swung the doors open and a beam of unearthly light crackled, an angry hiss punctuated the darkness, the blue moon a feral backdrop for the hovering demon.

Lilith. Ororo felt the demon's presence, knew she lurked just beyond, angry she'd been tricked, her thirst for blood unquenched.

"Please come back inside, T'Challa," Ororo pleaded, slowly moving from one end of the tub to the other, trying to get as close to the balcony as possible. But two sets of strong hands held her back and down. Ramonda. Dr. Somide.

"Let him," Ramonda warned.

"You don't understand; she'll kill him."

"You had Zawavari place the name of the angel Lialah around the entire palace, Lilith can come no further."

Ramonda pointed to the balcony and where T'Challa stood. Indeed, Lilith wasn't on the balcony. In fact, the balcony contained Lailah's name inscribed in glowing, magical Wakandan runes, as did five strategic points around the palace, creating a pentagram.

Several feet from the balcony, floated a contemptuous Lilith, shiny yellow hair coiled around her pale frame, icky black, soulless eyes taking in the unafraid man before her.

According to Jewish myth, there is an angel of conception, Lailah, who brings the soul and the seed together and then sees to it that the seed is planted in the womb. In doing so, Lailah serves as a midwife of souls. While the infant grows in the womb, Lailah places a lighted candle at the head of the unborn infant, so he or she can see from one end of the world to the other. So too does the angel teach the unborn child the entire Torah, as well as the history of his or her soul. Then, when the time comes for the child to be born, the angel extinguishes the light in the womb and brings forth the child into the world. And the instant the child emerges, the angel lightly strikes its finger to the child's lip, as if to say "Shh," and this causes the child to forget everything learned in the womb.

The myth goes on to say that Lailah watches over the child all of his days, serving as a guardian angel. And when the time comes for a person to take leave of this world, Lailah leads him from this world to the next.

And while Ororo's faith was one of a different sort, she understood that it wasn't her belief, her own faith that gave the angels inscription power, but the belief and faith of Lilith. She believed God's angels had power over her, and it was that belief, more so than the inscription themselves that held the ancient demon at bay. The power of her faith was the magical shield Ororo now relied on to not only keep her children safe but her husband from harm as well.

That had been Ororo's secondary plan, Lilith revealing her own Achilles heel during the mystical dreaming.

_I was created only to cause sickness to infants. If the infant is male, I have dominion over him for eight days after his birth, __and if female, for twenty days. When the angels heard my words, they insisted I go back. But I swore to them by the name of the living and eternal God: Whenever I see you or your names or your forms in an amulet, I will have no power over that infant.' I also agreed to have one hundred of my children die every day. Accordingly, every day one hundred demons perish, and for the same reason, they write the angels names on the amulets of young children. When I see their names, I remember my oath, and the child recovers._

Those were her words and Ororo had remembered them well. But what in the world did T'Challa think he was doing? Why was he confronting Adam's first wife? The woman who wanted nothing more than to kill him in a way she hadn't been able to do to Adam, or God, for that matter.

With sickening dread, all Ororo could do was watch.

T'Challa turned to her, smiled, and said, "I must do this, Ororo, before the babies are born. I will not allow their births to be marred by the blackened heart of another grieving mother. I've seen all too well what such heartache brings, the evil it breeds, the pain it spreads."

Then he stepped to the edge of the balcony, bringing both arms up to his side, and Lilith moved closer, as close as the protective field would allow. "Take your fill," T'Challa offered, extending a hand across the protective border and to Lilith.

Ororo nearly screamed, the ear-splitting thunderclap an uncontrollable manifestation of her fear, her labor pains increasing but ignored.

The snake that had been twined around Lilith's shoulder, now slinked down her body, over her outstretched arm and to T'Challa's, an unspeakable bridge of horror. Another thunderclap, and then the sinking of fangs into flesh.

Ramonda and Dr. Somide's grips tightened, but they needn't have bothered. Ororo had no energy, no power to prevent the inevitable. Lilith would claim T'Challa, the way she'd wanted to since being summoned.

The snake bit and sucked, Lilith's eyes black, hard, and deadly, her mouth forming a most grotesque smile. And then she swallowed as if she could taste the blood the snake drew from T'Challa. Perhaps she could.

Ororo's vision blurred and she held onto the rim of the rub, taking deep breaths, forcing herself not to pass out. Her right arm hurt, like twin needles sticking into her, and then the sucking sensation came, the pulling of skin, blood, memories, but not her memories. Not this time, no, the memories belonged to T'Challa, and she was being drawn into his mind, his heart, pulled by a metaphysical string, the one that connected her, T'Challa, and Lilith.

_Once I was a king. I wielded the power of an ancient god to protect my people. No more. I walked away from all I was to find out who I truly am._

_The throne of Wakanda must be earned through combat, and I defeated many champions to prove my worth. Now I am without the riches and powers that come with the title . . . But I still know a thing or two. _

_My pride, honor, and determination—these are not bound to a crown or position._

_Once I was a king, now I will be something very different. I arranged for every part of my life to bring me into contact with the people of this city. I choose an apartment where I thought it would be easy to meet my neighbors, to learn of their fears and concerns._

_After so many years, it was strange to be alone . . . truly alone. No servants. No politicians. No bodyguards. Not even my wife._

Images of T'Challa's time in Hell's Kitchen started out as a leaking faucet of images, then poured forth in heavy, cold waves, bombarding Ororo's mind and heart.

He had been so lonely and utterly determined to prove his self-worth—to himself. And seeing her husband in a light Ororo had never glimpsed before, struggling to walk after the plane crash, living with the knowledge of her nanite contamination and his inability to protect her from Doom, fearing she would never forgive him for choosing Wakanda and its people over her, giving up his identity of king, Black Panther, husband, brother, and son, in exchange for a much simpler one—T'Challa. Simply T'Challa.

The images raced through her mind, reminding Ororo of a Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. statement she'd read in his 1963 work, _Strength to Love_. _Each of us is something of a schizophrenic personality, tragically divided against ourselves._ And that described T'Challa, or how he'd been before he'd come to terms with himself, accepting all, including his family and friends.

T'Challa spoke, his words wafting through the air between them, encircling her, including Lilith in his revelation. The words of Robert Brault slipped from his lips. "'Looking back, you realize that a very special person passed briefly through your life, and that person was you. It is not too late to become that person again.' "

Then the emotional tidal wave began again, the snake digging deeper, twining its wretched tongue around T'Challa's arm, holding on fiercely. But the memory was unforced, came freely, given willingly. Ororo could feel T'Challa's energy and knew he wasn't fighting Lilith or her devilish snake. No, quite the contrary, he wanted them to see, to know.

Before she could solve the puzzle that was her husband's contingency plan, Ororo was sucked into another one of T'Challa's memories.

_This time I fly alone. As a king, it's hard to have a moment alone. You're leading a country, commanding an army, with all the servants and councils and security guards and other people who come with it. And even while constantly surrounded by people, it's easy to feel lonely. No one to trust, or even empathize with your position. The last time I was this alone, I was traveling in this same direction on my walkabout._

_I was excited by the prospect, a chance to test my survival skills. And a chance to be my own man, unburdened by title or expectation. But of all things I saw on my journey . . . nothing can compare to the first sight of her._

_If this journey goes well, I will never be alone again, a prospect that thrills and terrifies me. A wise woman once told said: "There is no greater challenge to a warrior than to open his heart to love." Why is my mother always right?_

_I hate being in this situation. This is going to be very painful. Why should I endure a minute of pain? I am a warrior, but why choose a fight when you can walk away?_

_There is a woman in each of those houses. I've flown over thousands of houses in my journey here. With all those women to choose from, why am I doing all this for her?_

"_Son, romantic love is a great luxury. So many people stay in unhappy relationships for their children, because they can't afford to live on their own. Even wealthy people marry to join fortunes or empires."_

"_Father, are you saying that romantic love is not achievable?"_

"_Just the opposite. Romantic love is the highest ideal. The family is the foundation of the nation. Without love in your heart, the weight of responsibility will crush you, turn you into a tyrant. I love your mother. Always have. Yes, she is from a family full of intelligent, strong, good-looking people, making her genetically appealing as a mother of my children . . . but all of that would mean nothing is she weren't a woman whose presence still intoxicates me years after we first met. _

_What's wrong? Does it all seem like an impossible goal?"_

"_Somewhat, yes."_

"_Don't worry about it, son. You've got years of fun ahead of you. Enjoy the life of a young prince to the fullest. Because when you meet the one, you don't want to ever look back."_

_And that was the problem. I met the one. But I was just a boy on my journey to manhood._

_Once we met, the attraction was instant, undeniable, all-consuming. She was beautiful, smart, tough, courageous, principled, even while being a thief._

_Once we met, we were pretty much inseparable. We had many adventures together. Only one thing could come between us._

_Me. A__nd my need for revenge, to punish the man who had killed my father, changed my life, and took me from her, placing us on similar but divergent paths._

Ororo found herself gasping for air, Ramonda patting her hand in sympathy. Ramonda nor Dr. Somide knew exactly what was transpiring with her or the scene playing out on the balcony. They too were stunned, afraid to venture closer to T'Challa but too protective of Ororo and the twins to leave her for a minute, even to call for the guards waiting on the other side of the heavy metal doors. Not that the Wakandan warriors would be of use, traditional weapons had no place in the realm of magic and mysticism.

And just when understanding started to dawn on Ororo, T'Challa's back, arms, and legs burst into flames of white and gold. Symbols Ororo had never seen on his expansive body suddenly appeared. But she knew them—Adrinka symbols.

On the rippled calf of T'Challa's left leg was an Ohene Aniwa, the eyes of the king. It was a symbol of vigilance, protection, security, and excellence.

The opposite calf contained an emblazoned picture of an Mpatapow, a knot of reconciliation and peace.

In the center of his glistening back was a Nkyimkyim, twisting lines, a symbol of toughness, adaptability, devotion to service, and ability to withstand hardships.

Finally, at the base of his neck, stretching from his hairline to his broad shoulders was an exquisitely crafted Sankofa bird, the symbol of the wisdom from learning from the past in building the future.

Ororo's eyes began to water and it wasn't from the intensifying pain in her abdomen and lower back. When had T'Challa had Zawavari include those additional symbols? And why hadn't he told her about them?

The magical protective symbols were invisible to the eye, T'Challa's skin appearing flawless under normal circumstances. But like opening a third eye, T'Challa could tap into the power of the symbols at will, evoking their will, spreading their light, their glory. And they were glorious, as splendid as the bearer.

Arms still outstretched, T'Challa balled his fists, muscles rippling in the glowing light, and he revealed another memory. And as the memory, their shared memory, crashed into her, Ororo recognized the balance of power. Unlike when Lilith had possessed her, Ororo had no control over the memories Lilith wheedled from her. But in this battle, T'Challa had given of himself freely, meaning he was in the power position, determining the terms of agreement, taking Lilith and her pet snake along for the ride.

"_Your visit has been a great comfort to me."_

"_I've accomplished little, king. Your friends who summoned me are very worried about you. As am I."_

"_I assure you, Ororo, I am well."_

"_Then why is the world on the brink of war?"_

"_There will be no war. This is all so much howling at the wind."_

"_There was once a great man of sound mind and temperament who had great dreams of protecting his people from evil. And building a great society that would enrich and enlighten all mankind. His fatal flaw was his crippling inability to admit he didn't know everything . . . that he was afraid. That man name was Magnus. One of the most tortured souls I have ever encountered. You, my friend, are in grave danger of becoming just like him."_

"_Please don't leave."_

"_I must."_

"_But I am still enjoying you."_

"_It is time, my king."_

"_Your team?"_

"_Needs me as your people need you. As Monica neds you."_

"_And you? Do you need me as well . . .?"_

"_For everything there is both a time and a season. Perhaps someday you will speak my name and I will never again leave your side. But for now, we must follow our own paths."_

"_And mine leads to me becoming Magneto . . .?"_

"_I have faith in your spirit, T'Challa. I will be with you always."_

"_Am I to kiss you now?"_

"_If that is your way . . ."_

And they kiss, a long, soft full of promise, full of regret kiss.

And then he spoke the words, the ones she barely heard back then, so low was the admission.

"_I—I—I don't know everything, Ororo . . . I . . . I'm afraid."_

Then he turned, slowly and with purpose, the snake forced to release him or succumb to the power emanating from the King of Wakanda.

Kneeling, Ororo leaned forward, her eyes riveted on the symbol on the left side of his chest, directly over his heart. The Osram Ne Nsromma, the moon and the star shone the brightest of them all. It was symbolic for faithfulness, love, harmony, loyalty, and benevolence.

Then he raised his left hand to her, an Odo Nyera Fie Kwan decorated T'Challa's palm: love, devotion, faithfulness. T'Challa spoke, and as the words left his lips, the symbol twisted, turned, and began to extend its divine light.

"Odo nyera ne fie kwan, love lights its own path; it never gets lost on its way home."

And when the last word was uttered a gossamer strand of light echoed between them like a beam from a flashlight, the Odo Nyera Fie Kwan now on Ororo's belly, the labor pains ebbing to a dull, manageable throb.

Without turning back to Lilith, T'Challa's eyes remained on Ororo's tear-filled ones and he spoke, strong, determined, and with sympathy. "I cannot return what you have lost, or undo what you have taken from others. These children, my children, our children have an 'astonishing destiny,' before them and you may not have them. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."

As those words began to sink in, reverberate in Ororo's mind, she saw him, total recall summoned by his arrival.

_The ultimate nullifier destroys its target, but it also destroys its wielder utterly. Pull that trigger and you will be wiped from reality. We will never have existed. That would be a pity_, he'd said, large smile and yellow glowing eyes peering down at T'Challa, _considering the astonishing destiny of the children you and Ororo will someday have._

"You've come to witness the birth of our children," T'Challa said.

"I have. You knew I would come, foresaw this day."

T'Challa nodded, his eyes still locked on Ororo, whose eyes couldn't help but stray to the mountain size Watcher floating in the sky outside of the balcony, his white and blue toga swaying quietly in the wind.

"Uatu," she whispered.

The Watcher made himself smaller, so small his entire form was visible. And that smaller form was now perched on the balcony and in front of a shocked Lilith.

And for the first time, those coal black eyes were no more, replaced by a color so blue Ororo knew the hue didn't exist in the natural environment.

"You saw what they did to me?"

Uatu nodded.

"You saw what they made me do, what they turned me into?"

Another nod.

"Do you know where my children are?" The third question was spoken on a frightened sob, the kind that comes with the expectation of a negative response.

"I do."

And Lilith's eyes became even bluer, hope manifesting after so many lost years.

"Can you take me to them? Is it too late for redemption, too late to save my soul?"

"I only watch, see, expect. I do not intervene, judge, or forgive. But I can point, and if you chose to follow the path, you will see and know, and set yourself free. But if you want redemption, Lilith, it must begin now, with them," he pointed to Ororo and T'Challa, "with their children."

Ororo felt T'Challa's hands on her, then his face, lips kissing the spot on her belly, the symbol he'd placed there, a symbol of his love, his devotion. And she knew it was time, there would be no better time to deliver their children than now.

She settled her back against T'Challa's strong chest, followed the smooth cadence of his breathing, and Ororo pushed when told to by Dr. Somide, and they came. Their son first, followed by a screaming baby girl, lightning ushering their safe arrival.

It was done, and when Ororo found the night sky once again, they were gone, Lilith and Uatu, and Ororo said a prayer, for Lilith's soul and that of her children.

**Part 3**

The smell of lavender scented water clung to her as heavily as fatigue. Ororo was so tired, but not so exhausted she failed to enjoy the lovingly cautious way her husband washed her after she'd given birth to their children. He held her, stroking her hair, thanking her for making him a father, for trusting and believing in him.

And when her eyes could stay open no longer, they settled on the image of T'Challa, standing near the balcony doors, a blue and pink bundle in each large arm, showing his children Wakanda, the legacy he would keep and hold for them.

T'Challa turned then, smiled, and walked to her side, his movements graceful and full of a father's pride. He turned their children to her, and Ororo smiled, a set of bright brown and blue eyes peered down at her. And then T'Challa spoke, low and tender, eyes and voice wilting from unshed tears.

"T'Chaka. N'Dare. This is your mother, my wife, Ororo Iqadi T'Challa. Her love and forgiveness made this day possible. You will love, honor, and respect her, as I do, and as she does me. You will learn this poem by Marcus Garvey. I will teach it to you, starting today, and every year, on this most sacred of days, your birthday, you will honor her through its recitation.

'Where can I find love that never changes  
Smiles that are true and always just the same,  
Caring not how the fierce tempest rages,  
Willing ever to shield my honored name?

This I find at home, only with Mother,  
Who cares for me with patient tenderness;  
She from every human pain would rather  
Save me, and drink the dregs of bitterness.

If on life's way I happen to flounder,  
My true thoughts should be of Mother dear,  
She is the rock that ne'er rifts asunder,  
The cry of her child, be it far or near.

This is love wonderful beyond compare;  
It is God's choicest gift to mortal man;  
You, who know Mother, in this thought must share,  
For, she, of all, is Angel of your Clan.

My Mother is black, loveliest of all;  
Yes, she is as pure as the new made morn;  
Her song of glee is a clear rhythmic call  
To these arms of love to which I was born.

I shall never forget you, sweet Mother,  
Where'er in life I may happen to roam;  
Thou shalt always be the Fairy Charmer  
To turn my dearest thoughts to things at home.' "

T'Challa, her husband, King of Wakanda, former Black Panther and protector of Hell's Kitchen, kissed her then, his lips warm on her cheek.

"Sleep now, my love. We'll be here when you awake."

**THE END **

**Author's Note:** Where appropriate, I tried to weave in the various, and often conflicting, Storm/BP origin stories. It wasn't seamless but I think each piece emphasized the point I wanted to get across. Die hard BP fans (Priest or Hudlin) will recognize the flashbacks/memories. And we can thank the late great, Dwayne McDuffie for his contribution to the royal couples future children. Both he and Hudlin used Uatu in their stories. Hudlin during the "Wedding of the Century," and McDuffie during the FF crossover that followed the events of Civil War. Thanks for reading.


End file.
